


The Bastard of Loran

by Drakomancy



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide, some headcanons where there’s no lore yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14011971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakomancy/pseuds/Drakomancy
Summary: On the night of the hunt, Bevan Fox arrives in Yharnam to find a cure to the illness that killed his mother and is now killing him. A blood minister offers him a contract that will bind him to this city’s fate until he can complete his task: descend to Ailing Loran.





	1. Ministration

When Bevan stepped through the Yharnam gates, they were nearly finished boarding up the windows. The coming night sat heavy on their brows, furrowed in suspicion as their eyes bore down on his foreigner’s garb. Tonight was the night of the hunt and no doors would open for him again until dawn. But he had already traveled too far upon the wings of rumor to turn away because of the hackles of the Yharnamites; the doctor had given him a month and already the moon hung fat again.

_ Blood ministration _ . The practice had formed the basis for dozens of cautionary tales to warn away from hubris, though that had never been his vice. He watched his mother wither away to the same illness that poisoned his own blood, sapping the color from his skin until he looked more corpse than living man. The doctors had told her that only that peculiar Yharnam institution had ever had luck lifting the pallor, but she preferred her dignity to begging the heretics for their cursed blood. Bevan watched as it ate the fat from her bones and left behind only the shadow of a woman to bury.

 

He lacked the courage to face that death. His hands trembled, blue veins bright beneath skin. These same hands had killed whales and people alike, but now he pulled gloves over the frozen digits, feeling so brittle they might break. The Yharnam hunters gathering in the streets shot him looks of suspicion, thick hairs sticking out at all angles from their cheeks. One dragged an axe against the cobblestones, the brim of his hat barely covering black, unfocused eyes. Bevan pulled his collar closer to his face, but the hairs on his neck still rose under the man’s glare.

 

The clinic sat at the end of an avenue that loomed over pointed roofs making up the lower lying districts of Central Yharnam. He found the peripheries of his mind picturing what his body might look like impaled upon one the spires, limbs twisted in the beginning stages of some beastly countenance. Why tonight did he find himself facing the betrayal of his own body or risk whatever madness consumed Yharnam’s heart? Had his carriage not been delayed by the storm, had he only been able to take leave of his affairs one day earlier, he could have received his treatment and been done with this city before this bloody night.

 

_ Paleblood _ . The word felt thick with heresy on his tongue, but in it he also tasted power. He etched it to his mind until it sat like an itch at the edges of his consciousness, committed to each of his thoughts with an ardent purpose. He focused his thoughts on it as he knocked on the clinic door, but it gave to his hand and opened inwards. The fading sunlight barely made it a few feet into the room before falling prey to shadows so Bevan trailed the wall with his fingers as he stepped past the threshold.

 

A part of him lingered behind, clinging to whatever vestiges of his old life had followed him this far. It wasn’t too late, they wouldn’t close the gates for another hour. If he turned and ran now, he might make the last carriage out of this city and be able to die at home with what dignity remained. But that was the path of certainty; no miracle blood offered him a last chance at life, nothing else the doctors could try to give him any extra time. He could not accept that certainty when Yharnam held the dimmest glint of hope in her toothy bosom.

 

“Hello?” His own voice sounded alien in the cavernous hallway. He took a few more steps when a spark danced across his vision as a candelabra came to light.

 

A man pushed his wheelchair out from a side passage, barely illuminated by the torch. Under a wide-brimmed hat, bandages covered his eyes, but he seemed undeterred as he wove between high piles of books and glass vials, not even bumping their sides. “Queer thing for someone to come into my clinic on the night of the hunt. If you have intentions to rob me, I’ll give you one warning now that I am armed.”

 

“No, sir…” Bevan began, his voice dry in the musty air. “I come seeking your services, blood ministration.”

 

“Well, you ought come back in the morning, outsider...such things are far better performed under dawn’s light rather than the charge of the moon.” The blood minister waved a hand towards the door, but Bevan pressed on.

 

“I’m afraid what I have can’t wait. I was told to come here seeking Paleblood.”

 

The minister froze and Bevan thought he could feel eyes bore into him, turning out the corners of his mind. “Paleblood, you say? Then it seems you have come to the right place.” He beckoned Bevan to follow, leading him into an bloodstained room, an operating table waiting at the center. His boots stuck to floor with a sickening sound that made his stomach churn. His heart thundered in his chest begging him to leave, but he sat upon the table; this one chance, this last chance, he committed himself to the heresy offered. The minister pulled a scroll from the bookshelf, handing it to him along with a pen. “But first, you’ll need a contract.”

 

Bevan’s eyes only glanced over the paper before pulling from his pocket a handful of coins that gleamed in the candlelight.“I can pay you, if that’s what you mean.”

 

“Oh no, the only currency anyone takes tonight is blood. Just sign there at the bottom, and you will be all settled.”

 

He found the dotted line and took the offered pen with his shaking hands. He signed the bottom with the two words Thomas had taught him years ago in that sickly harbor town. They looked unsteady and hesitant next to the flourished script above.  _ Bevan Fox _ . His stomach sank: he did not think this was a debt he would be able to escape. 

 

“Good. All signed and sealed. Now, let’s begin the transfusion.” The blind man motioned for him to lay back on the table and, sensing Bevan’s unease, said, “Oh don’t you worry. Whatever happens, you may think it all a bad dream…” He stuck his arm with a needle, laughing as the sedative took hold of Bevan’s vision.

 

* * *

 

When he next opened his eyes, the room was empty. No trace remained of the blood minister but the needle still sticking from his arm and an empty transfusion bag. He pulled it out, cringing at the sensation and tried to sit up, but froze as his eyes caught sight of red light reflecting off a pool on the floor. Blood coagulated into a puddle and writhed into a the shape of a snout, red teeth too long for its mouth. It pulled itself out with two elongated arms ending in claws like razors. Its eyes glowed yellow, trained on Bevan’s own, dragging its body closer and closer. He could feel burning breath on his face as it reached for his breast, mouth agape in anticipation for its petrified prey.

 

A flash as the beast burst into angry flame and it howled as its fur and skin burned away to the bone. Its body twisted and turned until the howls finally died away and it curled in like a spider, limbs blackened to char. The last embers smoldered as a thin white arm appeared in his vision, climbing onto his chest and revealing a caved-in face below two collapsed eye sockets. From the hole that would have been a mouth, a strained murmur escaped and more of the creatures climbed their way towards his face.

 

Bevan desperately willed his body to move, but it would not obey his commands. He felt as though the connection from his brain to his limbs had been severed and the minister must have lured him here to feed him alive to the alien creatures. They consumed his vision, bearing down on his face like pecking crows until his heart thundered so loud, he hoped it would burst before they began their feast. His vision fell to shadow again as they reached out for his skin.

 

* * *

 

Bevan woke this time with a jolt. He sat straight up, hand clutching his chest before running over his face. He exhaled with relief as he felt everything familiar still remained. Two eyes, crooked nose, scar above the brow. He was still alone, no sign of the dead wolf-creature or the small pale men. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he looked down to his hands and saw flushed color had returned to his skin: the blood ministration had worked.

 

“Just a bad dream.” Bevan muttered under his breath, standing up from the table and pushing his sleeve back down his arm. “I’d hate to see what you bloody people call a nightmare.” Still though, he felt lighter, energized even. The lethargy brought on by his sickness had lifted, and so quickly! He would gladly suffer such dreams for a fortnight if it meant he were cured.

 

Glass shattered in the next room and he crouched down, adrenaline already pumping through his body. But he was being foolish, wasn’t he? It had to just be the blood minister, knocking something over. The man was blind after all! He thought he should call out to offer assistance, but a lingering anxiety kept his mouth shut. Instead, he pulled his coat on tighter and crept toward the doorway, leaning up against the wall to peer around the corner.

 

Within the halo of a lone light, a tangle of fur and climbs crouched over a rumpled form. Splatters of blood dotted the floor like crimson stars and an arm lay lonely a few feet away. Bevan held his breath, aware of how loud the blood in veins pumped. The sound of squelching came between the beast’s huffs as it tore muscle from bone.

 

Bevan had to move, he knew that much, but the beast stood between him and the only exit in the windowless clinic. In his coat sat his flintlock, powerful for its size but a deviation of even an inch would mean the difference between a dead beast and an angry one. Still, he kept his hand on the smooth grip, feeling better with it than completely unarmed. The door beyond stood ajar, his chance at escape with only a beast in between.

 

Taking a step into the room, he held his breath as he kept behind the beast’s back. Its chest heaved as its claw pressed down on the body’s chest and Bevan had to contain a gasp as the ribcage snapped. He held his gun level with its head, finger shaking on the trigger but for the moment it remained occupied with its current prey. The door was only a few feet away and his brain shouted at him to run, but he doubted he could outpace the beast. Its knees looked long enough to be level with his waist, only needing a few strides before it would be upon him.

 

He sidestepped another foot, but the floorboard gave under his weight with a terrible  _ creak _ . The beast whirled around, bits of flesh and blood dripping from between its teeth. Claws extended, it lunged in a blur of gray. He pulled the trigger, hot ash falling back to his face. A pain burned through his chest and blood bubbled up into his throat; the beast sunk its teeth into his shoulder as its weight fell upon him. He screamed as it tore into his flesh and the world turned to black. 

 

* * *

 

_ Looks like you’ve found yourself a hunter. _

 

Grit bit into Bevan’s face when he opened his eyes. White light, and above he saw the moon, full and bright, suspended above a house on a hill. He shielded his eyes as he stood up. Had it always been so radiant, so large? It beguiled him, left him breathless - the enchanting beauty of how it pulled him skyward! It drew from him words he had only heard sailors use to describe lovers. Why had he never asked what held it above before? Maybe it held up the sky.

 

A scratch at the back of his mind kept him grounded. How had he gotten here? Where was here? The last thing he remembered, the beast impaled him, and then he died. He grabbed at his chest, feeling for the wound, but could not even find a tear in his vest. He could not have survived that assault and certainly not unscathed as he was, but then how? His breaths fell shallow as he tried to wrap his mind around it and the sky spun above him. This was not right,  _ it was not right! _ Standing here, here beneath the alien moon should not be possible, but here he was. He should be lying dead on the clinic floor as the beast ripped him apart. The two truths stretched him thin: dead and alive, both and neither, here and there.

 

Stumbling forward, he passed through a wrought-iron gate and into a weathered graveyard. At the top of a hill, the weathered house loomed. All of its doors and windows were closed and a childish part of him thought they looked almost like watchful eyes. Tombstones packed every foot of available earth, carefully carved letters marking so many deceased. On some, he saw stranger markings still that were unfamiliar to him, but set him at an unease that distracted him for the moment from the uncertainty of his state of being.  The one that drew his attention appeared as two half circles cupping a beastial eye without touching; the hairs on his neck prickled as he felt a watchful presence at his back. The rune, for something told him that’s what it was, found a home at the periphery of his mind, so easily called back to the forefront at the first reminder.

 

He turned around, flinching at the sight of a young woman sitting on a stone wall. He waited a moment to catch her eye, but then saw the smooth reflection of moonlight on her pale face. Bevan approached the doll warily, waiting for any signs of malevolence, but as he narrowed the gap, an easiness fell over him. He knew she meant him no harm.

 

White hands pulled small white bodies out from behind stone and onto the stairs - the same ones that had appeared after his blood ministration. He froze in place, but they did not press their approach, instead, holding up offerings that looked too big for their thin fingers.

 

The first offered a pistol, longer than his own, which he accepted. The barrel was wider than average, too spacious for traditional bullets, but then the creature gave him a bag of quicksilver slugs. The gun weighed heavy in his hand: he imagined the kickback, and what the slugs might do to a man’s head.

 

Three of the pale creatures held up a puzzling weapon: a saw, wrapped partly in stained cloth strips and attached to a hinged wooden hilt. One side of the blade was serrated and the other sharpened to a dangerous edge. Where this saw cleaver lacked in grace, it impressed him with its sheer propensity for violence. He took it by the hilt and swung it through the air a few times, getting a feel for it; the smoothness of the motion surprised him, as though it cut through the air itself.

 

Lastly, a pale creature gave him a small notebook, leatherbound with a clasp that held a charcoal pencil. He turned it over in his hand, caught off guard by how ordinary of a gift it was. He released the clasp and opened to the first page. The paper had already faded to yellow and he could see the leftover reminders of where pages had been torn from it before. How many had received these gifts before him, he wondered; the ghosts of their hands sent a shiver up his arm. Closing it, he offered it back. “This isn’t any good to me.”

 

Instead of accepting the notebook, it pointed behind him to a gravestone; three pale creatures beckoned him toward it. He took another glance at the doll, looking for guidance, but her face remained blank. Even here, he blushed at the gesture; he felt so childish, holding the gifted saw and the notebook and expecting permission to come from a hunk of porcelain wrapped in skirts. He was better than this, he was  _ braver _ than this, but doubt left him timid.

 

The gravestone was larger than most of the others, vines creeping up and obscuring the words. He brushed them aside and saw some of the engravings gave off a soft glow, like morning mist on a lake. He ran his fingers over the letters, running through the indents. Closing his eyes, a peace fell over him as a force pulled him from the graveyard.

 

* * *

 

 

Bevan gasped as he took his first breath.

 

He awoke to silver lamplight illuminating the wood floors of the clinic, a burning pain only now ebbing away from his chest. He grabbed at his clothes, but, again, he found no marks. His chest heaving, he stood up, feeling the weight of the saw cleaver in his hand. The image of a rune itched at the back of his mind, where had he seen it? The haze of a dream hung over his memory, but the only clarity he found was in that strange rune.

 

Opening the notebook, he took the charcoal and traced it out, his hand seeming to have a mind of its own. He stared at it for few moments, unsure what to make of the uncanny familiarity.  _ Moon _ . That was the word that appeared in his mind, though from some baser level of his subconscious. He felt power in this drawing and for a moment, considered tearing it out and burning it, but some force stayed his hand. He wasn’t strong enough to overcome the sensation, he knew. A leftover presence from the dream graveyard had touched his mind and he suddenly felt glad to be back in the clinic, away from the watchful sky.

 

From the next room, he heard a wet tearing sound and tightened his grip around the handle of the saw blade. The skin on the back of his neck prickled at the uncanny sight of the beast tearing into the corpse on the floor again. Every part of the scene was the same, except for his own self. He took a deep breath before he ran at the beast.

 

The saw ripped at the beast’s flesh, teeth grasping fur, skin, and meat as it passed through. It howled in pain, jumping back so its bright eyes could face its assailant. Bevan offered no quarter, closing the gap and swinging again, this time biting into its shoulder. Warm blood splattered his face. He just kept swinging. Another swing, another gush, the beast fell to the ground. Its body convulsed as he stood over its body, mangled limbs twisted among the corpse it had been feasting on.

 

His chest heaving, Bevan stepped back from his kill; the beast’s body was wrapped in ragged bandages stained brown with old blood. What kind of doctor applied them and how long ago? He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve before turning over the dead man’s face. Not the minister. He must have left after the ministration, but to go where? He could not help but imagine what these beasts would do to an old man.

 

Stepping around the bodies, Bevan climbed up the stairs and returned to the streets. The sun had set beyond his sight, obscured by Yharnam’s towers, and the sky glowed in orange light, almost like fire. The streets had cleared since he had last walked them, but distant screams warned him this did not hold true everywhere. The hunt had begun.

 

He walked back the way he came, creeping around corners in case any more beasts hid in shadow, but so far passed nothing but the smoky incense the Yharnamites burned out their windows. It gave him the strong impression of cloves and sage, scents he recalled Thomas being fond of; he would have laughed at the idea of using his colognes to deter beasts. From inside the houses, Bevan could hear whispers that silenced as his footsteps approached; shadows crossed the windows before candles extinguished and left them dark. He knocked on a door, hoping for quarter, but received a berating instead.

 

“Lousy offcomer. Who’d open their door on the night of the hunt! Away with you! Now!”

 

He tried asking for the quickest path to the front gates, but the man would speak no more. A scream from the far end of the street convinced him to move along. He turned down an alley, gripping his saw cleaver tight; he heard voices nearby, but their wails sounded too unnerving to be completely human. The alley ended with a metal fence, half the posts twisted or missing, overlooking a square. 

 

Below, a crowd gathered around a wooden crucifix, some furred creature burning, but appearing to be already dead. The crowd did not look all that different however, faces sprouting hair from the cheeks, dragging limp feet behind, and jaundiced eyes unfocused. A half dozen almost skeletal hounds paced between them, some of them chewing at corpses of dead beasts with what few teeth they had. Their masters hobbled closeby, armed with hunter’s rifles. 

 

“Should have burned it all…” One of the huntsman muttered, though to no one in particular. “Decaying...rotting...festering...won’t be long now.”

 

Bevan kept from sight, following the fence to steps that led atop the district’s walls. He felt more at ease as the burning beast shrunk in his vision and all the huntsman appeared more like ants. From atop the wall, he gazed over Yharnam, but his throat tightened as he saw just how far the city spread out around him. As far he could see, spires scratched the sky marking dead ends in the labyrinthine streets that ran through the city. No winding path had brought him to the center, yet he could see no thoroughfares cutting through the maze. Yharnam must have shifted, it was the only way.

 

“Well, well. A hunter, are ya? And an outsider? What a mess you’ve been caught up in. And tonight, of all nights…”

 

He whirled around, nearly falling from the wall as he faced a black beak beneath a pointed hat. He took her for a beast at first, feathered cloak blowing in the breeze like a mass of limbs. She stood with her arms crossed on the edge of the wall, twin daggers shining at her hip, but she did not move to reach for them.

 

“Who - who are you?” Bevan asked, swallowing the stammer in his voice.

 

“A hunter - but not like yourself. They call me the Crow.” She said. “This your first hunt?”

 

“Aye, I guess it is.” He relaxed his stance, off guard by the casual conversation. “What’s wrong with them all? I thought there would be others killing beasts.”

 

“Prepare yourself for the worst tonight. There are no humans left. They’re flesh hungry beasts, all of them. You picked a bad time to come to Yharnam, lad.”

 

“I’m not a lad.” Bevan bristled. “I’ve killed one of the big ones already. I’ve seen my fair share of blood in my own city.”

 

“You think just because you’re some kind of cutthroat back home, you’re ready to be a hunter?” She laughed, an eerie sound that echoed below into the square. A few of the huntsman glanced upwards, but raised no alarm. “Beasts don’t care how tough you look; they just want the stuff flowing through your veins. Still, you look like you still got your faculties with you, so that’s better than most of them.”

 

“They can’t all be mad.”

 

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Take care you keep your head - I’d hate to have to pay you a visit.” She sighed, almost mournfully and looked back over the city. “If you make it into the Cathedral Ward, come find me. You’ll have better questions once you see Yharnam for yourself.”

 

“How do I get there? What am I supposed to do?”

 

He saw the beak of her mask turn to the side as she laughed. “Didn’t you read your contract? A hunter must hunt.” She stepped off the wall, her cloak fluttering like wings before she disappeared. 

  
  



	2. Sainted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting off to Cathedral Ward, Bevan runs into a young girl and unknowingly changes her fate.

With the rising moon came the terrible shrieks of beasts, both the dying and the feasting. Though he tried a few more, no doors opened for Bevan. He would have to find his own way to Cathedral Ward. He kept to the shadows, seeing the shambling silhouettes of Yharnamites in the fiery glow of dusk. _There are no humans left_ , he reminded himself. He could see the beastial aspect of the stricken hunters when they raised up their torch and let the firelight fall on their faces, a mass of hair and teeth.

Every alley and avenue led him to the unfamiliar and there was little in the way of street signs to give him direction. Somehow, the city layout remained past the edge of his understanding, despite having made his way through the district that morning to meet the blood minister. Had that really been only this morning, though? Those memories felt more like a strange dream than actual reality. Had the doctor given him his sentence only a month before? It felt more like a memory from another life, not belonging to him.

He saw a great bridge passing over the district and decided to make his way towards it. Along the path, he found bodies of Yharnamites, limbs chopped and torn, likely from one of their own. He worried that each shadow would be hiding a beast, but so far he had managed to avoid being noticed by ducking into alleyways and behind the heavy coffins that had been left behind. As he approached the bridge he began ascending a staircase. There, he noticed blood from the bodies still ran fresh between the cracks in the pavement; he readied his cleaver.

Around the corner, he heard the stomps of some heavy creature, groaning in attempts at speech. Bevan leaned his head over to see a pale excuse for humanity, the wrong muscles bulging from his chest and arms that were draped in a shirt much too small. His bald head looked twisted over his face, forehead consuming his brow. In his hand, thick fingers curled around a gray brick, appearing to be one of the cobblestones making up the city streets. He loomed with his back turned at the mouth of a narrow alley, shoulders too wide continue further. His empty hand reached as far as he could into it, frightened sobs coming from the other end.

Bevan’s knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on the cleaver. He held his breath for fear the brute would hear his pounding heart. Stalking forward, his face went hot as blood rushed to his head, the thrill before the first strike. The smell of sweat radiated off the brute’s scraps of clothes. From here, he saw the veins popping out of his sallow skin, red blood just beneath the surface. Bevan pulled back, and swung down with the serrated edge.

The brute howled in pain and fury, but the blade did little to his muscled back. An arm swung down and hit Bevan directly in the chest, throwing him back into a wall. The air rushed from his lungs as the pain from the blow left him stunned. With the brute’s full attention now, he dove down to avoid being brained with the brick, but was thrown back when the other arm swung around. He hit the cobblestone and the brute reared up with both arms to crush him. Bevan whipped out his pistol and shot him between the eyes, not penetrating the skull but giving him a moment to leap back to his feet.

They circled each other, waiting for a blink or a stumble to strike. Something wet rolled down Bevan’s temple, though he resisted the urge to wipe it away. His muscles ached from when he was thrown but he tried not to let his weakness show. Beady black eyes bored into Bevan’s while the brute’s fingers flexed around the brick.

Far away, a howl echoed down from the Yharnam spires and the brute’s eyes slipped upward for but a moment. Bevan rushed forward, shooting his pistol at close range before he brought the saw cleaver up through the brute’s chest. As it slid between the ribs, he felt hot ash fall back on his face. Blood fountained from the wound as the brute collapsed to his knees, roaring in his death throes. He reached up to club Bevan with the brick, but his strength failed and he fell to the stone.

Bevan slid his cleaver free, wiping away a coating of blood from his eyes. His chest heaved as exhaustion fell over him, the rush of adrenaline ebbing away. He stumbled forward, almost dragging his weapon around the ground as he leaned on the brick wall for support. Peering down the alleyway, he looked to see what the brute had been after.

At the end, a young girl crouched, eyes bright as the fading sunlight reflected off tears. She flinched when she saw Bevan and began stepping back further into the alley, though it ended in a wall. He held up a hand. “He’s dead. You’re safe for now.”

Mistrust remained on her brow, but she stopped backing away. Her hair was wrapped in white ribbon, neatly tied just like a mum would like it. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old. “Are you...are you a hunter?”

Bevan nodded, his voice having left him as he caught his breath. The girl stepped closer, eyes lingering on the dead brute. “You must be; I don’t recognize you, but I know that smell.”

“Where’s your family?” Bevan managed, checking to make sure no others heard the fight and were coming to investigate. So far it appeared clear - he had not heard that howl since he killed the brute.

The girl’s eyes fell downcast and from her palm, she revealed a brooch, gold filigree holding a red gemstone in place. “My mum and dad...a hunter gave me this...mum never took it off, never ever. I’m all alone now.”

Bevan rubbed a hand down his face; his palm now blood red, he wiped it away on his pants. “Oh, I’m...I’m sorry to hear that.” He looked to the bridge, but he focused on the dead brute. There would be more, worse than that if what he had seen continued to hold true. His thoughts jumped to wolf beasts and their hungry jaws stretching to catch the young girl. “It’s too dangerous to be out tonight - where do you intend to go?”

“The hunter, she said it would be safe for me in Oedon Chapel. Our lantern was almost out of incense and mummy was supposed to come back with more…”

“Oedon Chapel? Is that in the Cathedral Ward?” Bevan asked. When she nodded, he continued. “And you know to get there?” She nodded again. “I’m headed there myself. Perhaps a deal? Directions in exchange for an escort?”

The girl froze at the suggestion. “You’ll take me there?”

Bevan nodded. “Aye, but we can’t dally; more beasts are sure to come calling. What’s your name?”

“Virginia Gascoigne, Mister Hunter.” She said.

“Just Bevan will do.”

“Don’t you have a last name, sir?”

“It’s Fox.”

“Mr. _Fox_? You’re not from Yharnam are you?”

He shook his head. “No, just an outsider. Now which way shall we start?”

She hesitated, as though debating her chances back on her own, but continued after another howl broke over the rooftop. “The main gate on the bridge is closed for the hunt.” She said. “But you can get around them if you go through the waterways.”

“Pretty name for the sewers.” Bevan said, allowing her to point the way. They walked past the dead brute and down the avenue, finding a staircase that led under a higher street. The cobblestone arch over their heads dripped water, reminding him of a natural cave more than a man made structure. Above, they could hear more screams and howls, the stricken hunters going about their work. She pointed to a ladder and led down off a sudden drop in the road and when he leaned his head over, sure enough, he saw the city’s sewer system.

“Think you can make it down alright?” He asked. The ladder looked like it went down at least fifty feet. She peered over the ledge before nodding, lips pulled tight. “Alright, well, I’ll go down first. Tell me if you get too tired.”

The rungs of the later were slick with an unidentifiable slime so they were forced to take each rung with care. Below, he could not see much beyond what light made it past the rooftops. He could hear sloshing against the brick walkways, but did not know if it was just water moving or something living. This was not his first time using a sewer to get around in a city, but he never could get used to the smell; it always stuck in his nose like he carried a little piece of it with him the next few days, something no amount of soap could get rid of.

Relief washed over him as his foot touched the ground. Virginia followed suit a few moments later, her face red and short of breath; the tears had dried on her cheeks and her brow furrowed in concentration. She pointed down one of the side passageways, but before they could drop down from the walkway, a thudding splash echoed from the tunnel.

A great snout emerged, followed by the swollen body of a massive pig. It was taller than a carriage and as long as at least two; Bevan doubted it could even turn around in the tunnel. He motioned for Virginia to drop to the ground, a finger to his lips as he did the same. They lied as flat and as still as they could as it passed below them, snuffling as it went. Its breath sounded like a gale, the putrid gust pushing and pulling their hair as it huffed. It continued on down another path, not taking a glance back before it disappeared from their sight.

“What...what was that?” Bevan said, helping Virginia to her feet despite his shaking limbs. He had seen creatures at sea, things he lacked the words to describe. But those creeping things were born of the ocean’s black depths, far from the home’s of men. This walked upon legs, and that was enough to turn him pale.

“My dad called them maneater boars.” She whispered. “But he said they kept outside the bounds of the city.”

“At least one found its way in then.” He replied, jumping down into the water before helping her down. Though the water wasn’t deep, it nearly made it to her waist. He kept looking back down the tunnel for the boar, but it shrunk in the distance until it turned down a corridor and disappeared. “Your father is a hunter then?”

“Yes, Mr. Fox. Grandad too - they’re hunting partners. Or they were.”

Bevan glanced down at her; she kept her face set, but betrayed her grief with a twinge of her eye. He could see glints of the brooch from her pocket as she walked. “A brave man then, your father. Keeping the city safe for you and your mum.”

She nodded, not looking very convinced. They were quiet for the next few minutes, listening only to the sloshing of their legs through the water. They took a few turns down tunnels, Bevan wishing they were narrow enough to keep the pig from following them, but each were just wide enough that he could imagine its body squeezing through.

“Mr. Fox?” Victoria asked, her voice echoing before she asked again in a whisper. “Mr. Fox, can I ask you about your mum? What is she like?”

He glanced down and saw her wipe away an escaped tear with her sleeve. “My mother...she passed a few years ago from illness.” He stopped, but then decided to add to that. “She was very kind - never once saw her ask anything of anyone, but she gave everything she had.”

The girl nodded, her nose snuffling. “And your dad? No, I’m so sorry, sir - mum always says I ask the wrong questions.”

_You’ll have better questions once you see the city for yourself._ “It’s alright.” Bevan said. “Don’t have one. He passed before I was born.”

“Oh, okay.” She said, her shoulders shrugging.

The tunnel opened up to where they could see sky again, but in the wider pool they came upon an unsettling sight. Slabs of stone and rotten driftwood had been arranged to look like pews. He could see the backs of worshipers heads, facing a makeshift platform that formed the dias. Rowboats and scraps of wood had been suspended to create a sunburst behind it, reminding him of shipwrecks he had seen on reefs. A woman knelt, haloed by the boats, whispering prayers before her congregation. Bevan’s stomach rolled as he saw that her flock was composed not of worshipers, but bloated corpses, held prostrate by hanging their limbs with fishing line. Each of her reverent acolytes had their eyes obscured and mouths agape.

“Seek the old blood.” Her whisper echoed through the chamber as she rose to her feet, neck hanging at an unnatural angle. “Seek it...but why should I share it? With every ministration I am left diluted...farther away from that first communion...” She turned to the congregation, lifting her arms above her head. “Let me pray, let me wish to partake in communion and feast upon the old blood. Men are frail, minds weak, but _I_ am worthy!”

She collapsed to her knees, writhing and pulling at her head until black hair came loose in chunks. Bevan motioned for Virginia to stay behind, pulling his saw cleaver from his back. The priestess lifted up her head so that he could now see empty sockets staring back at him, blood pooling where her hair had been torn out. Her black robes tore and he could see movement beneath her skin, as though snakes slipped between her bones. Her arms bulged as black fur emerged from her skin and twisted horns sprouted from her head.

Her face elongated into a snout, full with teeth, until her visage became entirely that of a wolf. A mane grew around her neck, the hair moving like water until suddenly a crackle of lightning danced between the strands. Realizing the danger, he hoisted Virginia up onto a ledge, the beast growling as she heard his splashing.

She roared, the shockwave almost knocking him down as she ran towards him, massive arms pulling thin legs behind her. He rolled out of the way before she crashed into the tunnel wall, dust and bricks raining down. Shaking herself, she faced him again, nearly twice his height even while hunched over. She swept her claws down toward him, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up as the static buzzed past him.

Bevan kept his back to the dias, trying to lure her away from the girl. The beast took the bait, stalking him in a half circle as she planned her approach. Her mane flared like a thunderhead, arcs sprouting from her skull before finding the water. His mouth went dry at the thought of being struck - if his heart didn’t stop, she was sure to finish the job while he was stunned.

The beast leapt forward, closing the gap between them and readied to whip her mane toward him. Shooting from the hip, he got off two shots - the first flew through the mass of hair, but the second found its mark in her chest and she fell to the ground in front of him. He seized the opportunity and brought down his cleaver to her back, raking it through her flesh as he pulled it free. Her howls echoed through the chamber as though a dozen beasts sung some terrible chant and he felt chills go through his body.

She thrust herself backwards by her arms, panting as blood spurted from the wound. Bevan gave her no opportunity to catch her breath, charging as he swung again with the cleaver. Her arms came down, grabbing him like a vice as she roared again. Her mane lit up blue as arcs of lightning danced down her arms, biting into him with a hot sting. He struggled in her grip and he reached for his pistol, his heart leaping as fingers wrapped around the grip. Squirming, he aimed the barrel for her chest.

The report echoed through the chamber and then he felt the air rush around him as he fell to the water. Above him, the beast writhed, a hand clutching her chest where blood spurted. He scrambled back to his feet, aches slowing him down, but he steeled his resolve and swung to strike her again.

His swing halted as a massive hand wrapped around his forearm, looking as though she might turn his bones to dust if she only squeezed. Lightning crackled from her mane before it arced to his cleaver and bit into his arm. He cried out in pain, feeling as though his blood boiled beneath his skin, but she only intensified the shock. His chest heaved but no air made it to his lungs, only hot emptiness. He willed his muscles to contract, to pull away, but they flexed and throbbed on their own accord, answering to a higher power.

Then, the pain stopped. The lightning still poured into him, but the shock dulled as his muscles came back under his own control. The beast lifted another arm to redouble her efforts but a shot through her bottom jaw forced her to rear back, releasing his sore limb. He set a flurry of blows upon her, beating her backwards until he cornered her into the wall; she cried out, a terrible forlorn howl as he bloodied the water with her essence. He tore through knotted layers of skin, muscle, bone and found only red blood beneath; it invigorated him, quenched him.

Her broken jaw suddenly twisted around, focusing on Virginia standing on the elevated walkway. Her arm tensed before she lunged for the girl, claw grabbing that white ribbon. Bevan only had a moment to react; he grabbed the beast by her mane and pulled her back to the water. A blast of lightning erupted, turning the world blue and white as the beast fell upon him. He planted the cleaver in her skull as she dug her claws into his chest and through his lungs. Agony, as the shock tore through his body and his vision turned black.

 

* * *

 

_Welcome home, good hunter._

Bevan awoke again to the bright moon bearing down on his head. The pain had gone from his chest, but the weariness remained. He stood up slowly, using his knee for support, then came face-to-face with the doll. She stood, hands clasped in front of her, appearing as though she were suspended by invisible wires. Then, she blinked.

Bevan stumbled back, but her hand reached out and caught his forearm, somehow both gentle and firm. “Do not be alarmed, good hunter. I am a doll, here in this dream to look after you. You are safe here, for now.”

A sense of calm washed over him and he ceased his attempts to pull away. “A dream? Who are you?”

“Just a doll.” She said. Her accent seemed almost familiar to him, though it differed from the Yharnamites and his own. “You hunt beasts and I will be here for you...to embolden your sickly spirit.” She picked up a scroll that sat on the stone wall beside her, holding it out for him. “Gehrman wanted you to have this.”

Bevan accepted it and unrolled the parchment to see his familiar signature at the bottom. _Thomas’ signature._ A shiver went through his chest and he held it back out to the doll. “What are the terms of it? How do I pay my debt?”

She pointed to the house on the hill. “Speak with Gehrman. He was a hunter long, long ago, but now only serves to advise them.”

Bevan shut his eyes, an itch in his mind beckoning him away. He was wasting time. He rolled the contract tight and shook his head. “I can’t right now - I have to…” The doll tilted her head as she watched him speak and his mind flooded with the lightning beast and a terrified scream. “I have to get back there!”

“The little ones will take you back.” She said, holding her hand out to the pale men gathered around the tombstones. They pointed to a word chiseled into the stone, he put his fingers to the indent, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

His eyes opened to darkness before adjusting to the dim light. He stood in the sewers again, though he was dry everywhere but his ankles. He recognized the area he stood in: the tunnel would widen soon into the chamber the beast held her church. He rushed off, not caring much for how much noise his sloshing sent echoing. He could not know how much time had past, if any at all had while in the dream. His thoughts went to the boar and fear stabbed into his chest.

Though it felt far longer, he arrived in the chamber a few minutes later and found it mostly the same. Stagnant blood floated where the beast had fallen and he could see the ribbon in the center, dyed red now. _No._ He thought, wrapping a shaking hand around the silk. He failed. He had taken too long and allowed some awful creature an easy meal.

Then a scream from the walkway above and he stumbled back. The girl, Virginia - gods be thanked - poked her head just barely over the side. Her face was puffy and framed by her now loose hair, but alive and appearing unharmed. “Mr. Fox…” She said, her voice shaking. “I saw you _die_. The beast killed you! How…are you a ghost?”

Bevan shook his head, holding out his arms to help her down. She looked at them doubtfully for a moment before she complied, seeming relieved that he was solid. He carried her away from the blood before placing her down again. “I’m sorry about your ribbon.” He said, taking a deep breath as he allowed himself to feel relief. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s alright.” She said, wiping her face with her sleeve. “I’d rather not be down here anymore. Can we move along? Oedon Chapel is just around that corner.”

Bevan nodded, still in disbelief that she was in one piece. A few minutes later, they arrived at a spiral staircase that brought them from the sewers to Cathedral Ward. As they ascended he realized the ribbon was still clutched between his fingers.


	3. Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bevan ascends to Oedon Chapel and learns the terms of his contract. He finds the remaining family of Gascoigne's daughter, but Old Hunter Henryk does not offer a warm greeting.

Yharnam loomed even larger over the Cathedral Ward. A ladder let them out of the sewer and into the district and before long they arrived at Oedon Chapel. Nothing about it appeared welcoming nor a safe haven; iron rods jutted out from the peaks of the roof and narrow windows let only the barest slip of light free. The tall doors nearest them were open however, and as they climbed the stone steps, the smell of incense wafted out.

Bevan coughed, using his hand to fan some of the smoke away. “You’re sure this is the place?”

Virginia only nodded as she walked in. Dozens of incense jars flooded the room, and between them, a creature clothed in a tattered red cloak crouched. Around him were dozens of the jars, tiny flames peeking out from the tops. Had this fellow lit them all himself? When they approached, he started with surprise, “Hello? Is that you, hunter?”

Bevan hesitated to answer, keeping his distance. The person, if he was in fact human, had coal gray skin and white, pupilless eyes, but he was not a beast. “The name’s Bevan, and I’m a hunter, but I don’t think the one you’re referring to.”

“Oh! Did Miss Mina send ya? Make yourself at home wherever you like; you’ve got nothing to worry about in ‘ere!” The chapel dweller laughed, but for a little too long.

Bevan didn’t respond, stepping between the incense jars as he inspected the chapel. The roof soared high with its narrow windows letting little of the evening light through. The area in the middle was raised, reminding him of the dias in sewer. Many candles burned and the shadows jumped around them like the sideshows he had seen in his home city;  the actors had used fire to cast their shadows onto a high wall and the dark figures had towered over them as they told the ancient stories. Three more doors led out of the main chapel area, one open and appearing to actually descend into the catacombs, but he could see it was still defensible. No Yharnamite and only a few beasts would be able to get past the heavy doors if they were barricaded. Even the brute from earlier would barely chip at the stone.

He allowed Virginia a chance to relax while he mulled over whether or not to trust the chapel dweller. In the meantime, he leaned against the door they came through, looking out into Cathedral Ward. He heard fewer screams here, but instead a din that sounded almost like a deep moan on the horizon. He took a deep breath of the outside air, finding it thick but still easier to breathe than the smoke inside the chapel. The doctor told him that he couldn’t smoke anymore - probably agitated his condition into starting younger than his mother’s; he had rolled a cigarette with the finest tobacco he could find before leaving for Yharnam. He felt like a new man since his ministration, but it still felt too early to celebrate. The contract weighed on his mind - they couldn’t prevent him from leaving the city, could they? He tried to picture the front gates as they appeared when he stepped through that morning, but all that came to his mind was that rune he sketched in his notebook.

Bevan retrieved the contract from inside of his coat, unrolling the heavy parchment; only a handful of words sat on the page, less than he remembered. They weren’t penned out neatly like the ones he had signed for joining a new crew, but instead looked almost scratched into the parchment. These were rougher, an almost feral handwriting. At the bottom though, was his signature, traced out exactly how Thomas had shown him. He traced his finger around the curling script and for a moment he could smell sea salt and dusty books. He tried to savor the scent in his mind, keep the memory with him, but it slipped away and left him with only incense. 

“Say,” He said, addressing the dweller. “You can’t tell me what this contract says now, can you?”

“‘Fraid not, sir.” The dweller said, his head turning so his white eyes were visible. “Though I wish I could help, I really do. Perhaps the other hunter will come back…?”

“I know my letters, Mr. Fox.” Virginia said, standing up from the steps where she sat. “Do you want me to read it for you?”

Bevan chastised himself for not thinking to ask her earlier as he nodded and handed the scroll to her. She furrowed her brow as she looked it over. “It says,  _ to escape this dreadful hunter’s dream, descend to Ailing Loran.”  _ The words fell from her mouth as though she were enchanted, as though the contract had assumed her voice. She looked up, her eyes falling back into focus as her normal cadence returned. “That’s it, other than your name.”

Bevan’s hands began to shake. A word was missing from his brain, but he could not think of what it was. He knew, though he knew not how, that if he could connect the word to the contract he would derive some deeper understanding from it. Who - or what - was Loran? And the ailment...he thought to his own familial woes; did the sickness still follow him? The chapel blurred around him - if he only could think of that word! He reached out with his mind, but he only found a gap, a nothingness, where the answer should be.

“Mr. Fox? Mr. Fox, are you quite alright? You look so pale.”

Bevan shook himself, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I’m fine, just a bit tired.” He accepted the contract back from her, though he dared not look at its writing again for fear it might possess him as well.

“You ought really get some rest, sir.” The dweller said. “By the looks of it, this is going to be a very long night indeed, and you’ll need your strength if you want to return to your hunt. Do you have any blood vials?” He pulled aside his red cloak to reveal five glass bottles filled with scarlet. “I’ve not too many, but enough to share.”

He accepted three of the vials, thanking the dweller, but holding off on pulling the cork from the neck. Could his energy already be waning from his earlier ministration? It felt days ago, but the evening had still not slipped into twilight. Time was sticky here in Yharnam and the city had already aged him. His body ached, echoes of his two deaths at the hands of the beasts. Though he had no scars to show for it, he could feel where their claws had slipped beneath his flesh. He put a hand to his chest, worried the skin might open up again and let his guts slip out. 

Pulling the stopper free, he sniffed the contents: iron. Nothing about the scent gave off the impression of being from something living; if the dweller had informed him that the blood had been pulled from a vein, deep in the earth, he would have believed him. Nothing in its appearance looked appetizing, he would just as soon eaten bullets if he did not already know its power. He tipped the vial back, letting the blood fall over his tongue and down his throat.

He gagged. It was thick and clung together as it slid down his throat, as though already coagulated. But after a few moments, his cheeks warmed and the color returned to his skin. The aches and throbs in his chest loosened and the years weighing on him ebbed away until he felt like a young man again, bravado included. 

“Thank you, sir, for the hospitality.” Bevan said, wiping a few drops of blood from the corner of his mouth. “I can’t be dallying here long, but I hoped you could reassure me that the girl would be safe here until the morning?”

“Of course, sir!” The dweller said, his voice trembling in excitement. “Me only wish is that any survivors looking for quarter in Yharnam find this ‘ere Oedon Chapel. The city’s done for; even an outsider like yourself can see that, but that don’t mean I’m ready to give up on any of the sane ones left. The girl will be safe ‘ere: beasts can’t stand all this incense I’m burning.”

Bevan wrinkled his nose, but was satisfied for now with the chapel dweller’s reassurance. He crouched down beside Virginia, pulling his old pistol from his pocket. “I pray to the gods you won’t need this, but I trust you know how to use it if the time comes?” She nodded and he continued, keeping his voice low. “Do you have anyone, any other family I might find and bring back here?”

Virginia held the pistol at a distance; the flintlock looked like an oversized toy in her small hands. “Maybe grandad? He and father used to prepare for their hunts at the Tomb of Oedon - it’s not far from here. I haven’t seen him since things here started to go bad though…”

“Better you be with your own kin.” Bevan stood back to his full height. “Where can I find this tomb?”

Virginia pointed to the back of the chapel, a door sat closed at the other end. “My father showed me a shortcut once. There’s a trapdoor to the cellar in the library that will take you there.”

He nodded, and hauled his cleaver to his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon; remember what I told you about that.” He eyed the gun in her hand to make sure she understood and left for the back of the chapel when she nodded. The wooden door opened to a staircase leading into blackness so he grabbed a torch from a wall sconce and began his descent.

At the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in a small room whose walls were lined with heavy bookshelves, the oak wood carved with scroll patterns. A cluttered desk assumed the center of the room,  books, pens, and other arcane things stacked and scattered upon the surface. One book sat open, handwritten text on the page beside a strange symbol - another rune. It appeared to be a series of variously sized shapes, either triangles or divided diamonds, punctuated by dots at every tip.  _ Heir _ was the word that appeared in his mind, though he didn’t how he came to it. It sent a shudder up his spine. He ripped the page from the journal, studying the rune and all of its angles, but the more he stared, the more it seemed to plant roots in his mind. He blinked, a shadow of the rune lingering in his vision even as he looked away. Folding the paper in half, he slipped it into his notebook, right beside the other rune.

He found the trapdoor underneath a rug, dust billowing into the room as he lifted it. A ladder led down to a tunnel, lit only by the torch he carried. As he descended down, he found himself surrounded by old stonework, chipped and weathered by time. Was this really the tomb of some Yharnam god? How does one actually pray to a dead god?

Bevan had once held the gods of sea and sand in his heart - small offerings of salt left in a vial for the dawn, a painted flag billowing in the seabreeze. His mother had shown him little rituals, tying string around driftwood with her cracked hands so they could set them into the sea in time to watch the sun dip below the horizon.  _ This will set our luck straight _ , she had said. Whenever their coffers ran dry and left them with nothing but bread, she would say it was all due to crooked luck. They only needed to make more offerings and the gods would straighten it again - a contract.

But he saw things at sea that shook his faith - terrible, writhing things that lived only to consume. A tangle of flesh and teeth had risen from the water, capsized the  _ Mariner’s Covenant, _ and sent Thomas and him adrift in a whale boat. Prayers to the sea and sand went unanswered, even as he offered fishbones, tied together just like his mother had with the driftwood. His gods had fled before that mass of teeth as it descended on their ship, not daring to turn their gaze even as the days at sea turned to weeks. Bevan made no more offerings when he finally returned to shore, eyes sunken and ribs forming valleys on his chest.

The path led him out through an iron gate to a cobblestone road overlooking a graveyard, though not one that appeared worthy of a god. The metal fencing was twisted by time and the headstones crumbled in disrepair; he could see how a couple of hunters might use this area to speak free of prying ears. In fact, a man stood in the center crouched next to the body of a beast, crumpled among its torn clothes. The man wore yellow, a color that looked more like it belonged to the lighthouse keepers of Bevan’s own home than the gray streets of Yharnam. A feather stuck out from his hat above his masked face and a long scarf billowed at his back. Despite his comparatively garish garb, a saw cleaver sat strapped to his back, along with a pistol at his side, marking him a true Yharnam hunter.

“Sir!” Bevan called out and immediately the man’s head shot up, eyes catching him from between his hat and mask. Bevan hesitated, unsure if this was the right man. Those eyes, even from here he could tell the pupils were wrong, too big. “Are you grandfather to the young miss Gascoigne?”

The man did not answer immediately, his eyes falling down go the dead beast at his feet. “Gascoigne...yes. I came here to meet him...same as every hunt.”

Bevan felt his heart jump at the prospect of success. He descended the stairs, excitement quickening his step. “Then let’s go - she needs you at the chapel. I can explain more on the way.”

The man remained staring at the beast, almost entranced. He swayed on his feet like a drunk. “ _ Beasts all over the shop _ , he said. Always did have trouble seeing what was right in front of my eyes…”

A blur of a hand and a shot of pain ripped through Bevan’s chest and he dropped the torch. He looked down to see the hilt of a knife sticking out and his shirt blossoming red. He tried to gasp, but the air escaped him and blood filled his lungs. The man took his saw cleaver and transformed it to its long form, sharp blade shining in the flickering torchlight. Stepping over the dead beast, he prowled closer to Bevan, lifting his blade up high before swinging it down toward his neck. 

Bevan caught the cleaver on the edge of his own, surprised by the man’s strength as they dueled for the advantage. He dug his heels into the dirt, but still found himself being pushed back. Words ran through his mind that might stop the attack, but they leaked out through the hole in chest as he struggled to breathe. With what strength he could muster, he shoved the man back and pulled his pistol free to fire off a shot.

The man slid out of the way and loosed another knife from beneath his cloak, this one clattering into a headstone. Bevan pushed an attack, swiping down with his saw cleaver but too slow to catch the seasoned hunter as he ducked beneath the blow. A moment later, he forced Bevan back on the defensive as several quick swings had him backpedaling. His foot caught on a stone, nearly sending him to the ground, but he caught himself on a headstone, at the sacrifice of his pistol.

Before he could retrieve it, the hunter loosed another flurry and Bevan had to roll behind the graves. When he tried to stand again, a knife flew past his head, so he ducked down again. His gun laid just beyond his reach, muzzle against the same stone that tripped him. A yellow pant filled his vision as the hunter loomed overhead, preparing to bring his cleaver down. 

Bevan ripped the knife from his chest and thrust it toward the hunter, finding purchase in a thigh. The man cried out and stumbled backwards, giving Bevan the chance to lunge for his pistol and fire another shot. The bullet grazed the hunter’s shoulder and he retreated backwards to tend to his wounds. He ripped the blade from his leg before pulling a glass vial from his coat and downing a long drink of blood. Bevan cursed himself for forgetting his own. He grabbed one from his coat pocket, ripping the cork free with his teeth before tipping the liquid down his throat.

A warm sensation filled his chest as the skin stitched back together, relieving him of the sharp pain, but leaving the blood pooled in his lungs. Still, it allowed him to catch his breath; he leapt over the headstone firing his pistol as he came down upon the hunter with his saw. Blood spurt out of a new wound in his stomach as the hunter jumped back. The blade tore the fabric of his coat, almost getting caught before Bevan ripped it free. The hunter used this opportunity to kick him in the leg to throw off his balance before following through with pistol fire of his own.

The bullet bit into his hip and lodged painfully into bone. Bevan stumbled, keeping his feet but nearly doubled over in pain as the hunter returned with wide swing of his blade. He deflected the attack with the serrated edge of his saw, but a knife planted into his stomach and he collapsed to the dirt. His weapons fell from his hands as Bevan felt for the other blood vial in his coat, the cool glass the only comfort among hot pain. Before he could pull the stopper though, the hunter dug his boot into his wrist. A  _ snap _ and Bevan’s grip released; the bottle rolled from his fingers, resting just outside his reach.

Leveling his blade to Bevan’s neck, the hunter prepared for the killing blow, dark eyes still betraying no emotion. Bevan tried to protest, but all that rose up to his throat was a bloody cough. Meeting the gaze of his soon-to-be killer, he readied for his third death, almost welcoming the release from the pain of his wounds. A glint of red, and then the blade came down. 

Halfway through the hunter’s swing, twin points of steel erupted from his chest, one last gasp as the air leaked from his lungs. His weapon clattered to the ground and his body slumped, revealing the feathered figure behind him. Her two daggers dripped with the hunter’s blood, looking like a raptor’s talons after sinking into a rat. Her beaked mask cocked to the side - a look of surprise, or perhaps curiosity?

“Well, well.” The crow said. “You found Henryk before me. Should have known better than to meddle with a maddened old hunter.”

“B-blood…” Bevan managed, still reaching for the vial with his broken wrist.

She nudged it into his reach with her boot, as though she were pushing an insect out of her way. Bevan grabbed it, ignoring the pain in his wrist long enough to bring the vial to his lips and down the blood in a single gulp. “Mind you be careful drinking that.” She said. “I’d rather you weren’t my next mark.”

The blood worked quickly upon his wounds, but less effective than before. It stitched together his stomach after he pulled the knife free, but the bullet still ground against his hip and his limbs ached from the strain. He struggled to catch his breath, but his throbbing chest would not settle so long as the pain remained. “You got anymore?” He asked between gasps.

Her head fell, disappointment? The mask stayed the same, letting none of her true feelings through. From beneath her cloak, she pulled another vial and dropped it to his lap. “That’s all you’ll get. You’ve no business hunting hunters; leave that to me.”

Bevan drank the other vial, barely noticing how thick it felt sliding down his throat. “Thank you...I - I wasn’t prepared. He was her grandfather...I don’t understand, why did he try to kill me?”

“Still not used to the Yharnam look, are ya?” She said, sounding morose. “Henryk was a good hunter, but it took its toll on his heart. Finding Gascoigne like this must have been too much for his old mind.”

“Gascoigne?” Bevan looked to the dead beast and saw the remnants of a black coat and hat, torn where his body had grown too large. “Bloody gods...her father…”

“And by the looks of it, her mother dead back there.” She turned to where a bloody lump could be seen on a roof near where Bevan had entered the graveyard. “I wish I could offer something more reassuring, but there aren’t words like that left in Yharnam.” She paused, then offered him her hand. When he took it, he felt something metal against his palm as she hauled him to his feet.

He turned over his palm to see a coin-sized badge with two lightning bolts engraved in the metal. On the back, he found the rune from inside the chapel basement:  _ heir _ . He looked up at her questioningly, and she answered before he could ask. “This was Henryk’s. Show it to the little ones in the dream and they will know you are the new bolt hunter.”

The badge weighed heavier in his hands as he learned it was an inheritance. “Thank you - I think.” He put a hand to his forehead. “All of this was for nothing now. Henryk was the only family she had left.”

“Admirable intentions, but those are what brought Yharnam to this sorry state. If you really want to help, complete your contract, and hunt beasts.”

“Ailing Loran.” He said, thinking to Virginia’s words. “I don’t know where to begin.”

She laughed, a mirthless sound. “Seems to me you’ve already got all you need. You want to find what’s left of Loran? You’ll need a chalice. You want a chalice? Only a few people know where to find those and I know one of them lives in Cathedral Ward. He’s a detestable fellow, no doubt about that, but he has a knack for getting into forgotten places. He lives on the edge overlooking the woods, a blue lantern at his window. Tell him Eileen sent you and that should be enough.”

“Eileen? You’re from-”

“The Hinterlands. Yes, don’t think I didn’t recognize that coastal accent, boy. Yharnam is a long way from home and I’m sure you’d like to return. So do yourself a favor: hunt beasts, find the tomb prospector, and for gods’ sake, listen to your elders.”

* * *

Eileen directed him to a lantern close to where Henryk fell, cold white light radiating from the flame. As he kneeled before it, the graveyard melted away around him and he awoke again in the hunter’s dream. The pale moon hung closer now, or maybe his eyes had finally adjusted enough to see it. The doll awaited him by the wall, bowing her head as he approached.

“Welcome home, good hunter.” She said, before turning her bonneted head toward the house on the hill. “Gehrman awaits.”

Bevan gave her one lingering glance as he assumed the stairs to the workshop, passing the messengers hanging from gravestones with their arms outstretched to touch him. The door was open a crack and pushed inside easily to where a man in a wheelchair waited. Books lined each wall and above them hung hinged weapons like his own saw cleaver. Where there weren’t blades, pistols and muskets and guns more complicated than he had seen before stretched along the wall.

Gehrman gave no sign that he noticed him, head bowed in his chair as his thin white hair hung in front of his face. He looked to be in mourning, dressed all in black, and age had clearly taken its toll on his body. His cane tapped against the wooden floor and Bevan could see on of his legs had been replaced by a wooden peg. “Well,” He began, his lips barely moving. “You’re the new hunter, are you? I am...Gehrman, I trust the doll welcomed you to this dream?”

Bevan nodded, though he wasn’t sure the man could see. He continued on anyway. “Good, good. Now, I heard you were seeking a holy chalice...a bit early in the night don’t you think? The hunt will be long tonight, no point in all this rush. Wouldn’t you rather go out and kill a few beasts?”

“I’d rather wash my hands of this whole town.” Bevan grunted.

“You’ll get used to it.” Gehrman said with a laugh, his whole body shaking enough to seem like it would crumble. “Might not seem like it now, but this dream will seem like home soon enough. Even if you don’t care for me, know that I’m a friend to you hunters. Here…” A thin hand held up a flowerbud, not yet bloomed. “Coldblood. You’ll need this if you’re to complete the chalice ritual. Think of it as advance payment…”

Bevan took the bud, surprised by how solid it felt, the weight sinking into his hand. He closed his fingers around it and a chill ran up his arm. Letting his feet carry him back through the door, he found himself at the foot of the hill again where the messengers waited for him, holding up a yellow coat in their twig arms.

“Keep it; that’s a dead man’s coat.” He said, distaste on his face.

“That is the garb of the bolt hunter.” The doll whispered from behind him. “It passes on to you, now.”

He turned to see her shoulders, realizing her height for the first time. He hesitated, but still protested. “It’s bad luck.”

“I have heard such superstitions before, from other hunters who have passed through the dream. They always return though - the beasts do not have the same respect for the dead.”

Bevan closed his eyes, the moonlight wearing down his willpower. He took the coat from the messengers, shedding his faded gray one. Together with that hat, he felt very much like a fisherman in his oilskin. It fit comfortably, though Henryk had been a smaller man. The fabric was heavy, hanging straight off his body and remaining stiff as he moved. It had quite a few pockets on the interior that he used to store his effects, contract, notebook, and pistol.

He dropped the flower bud in one of them where it fell like a stone and then went to the tombstone he knew would return him to Oedon Chapel. He cast a single last look to the doll, her eyes, blue he noticed, stared at him longingly, as though she had more to say. Shutting his eyes, he touched the stone and felt the world begin to melt away.


	4. Prospects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As night descends on Yharnam, Bevan follows Eileen's directions to the home of the tomb prospectors to receive direction on where he may find the chalice of Ailing Loran. However, the beasts of the Cathedral Ward have a different destination in mind.

“Mr. Fox, Mr. Fox!”

Bevan pushed himself off the floor, his body feeling heavier than before. He was in Oedon Chapel again, but the glow of dusk had fallen into night. Bright moonlight leaked through the windows, supplemented by small flames lit atop the incense jars. A few others had joined Virginia: an old woman, a man with his arms folded, and two younger women, one dressed as a nun and the other a woman of the night.

“Why are you wearing grandad’s coat?” Virginia said, her face falling to a look of horror. “He’s not-”

He knelt down to be eye level with her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I was too late for him. Madness claimed him after your parents’ deaths.” Reaching his ungloved hand into his pocket, he grabbed the bolt hunter badge. He held the badge out to her. “This was his, you should have it.”

Virginia stared at it a moment, then suddenly pushed his arm away. “No! You killed him, Mr. Fox! He was all I had left and you stole his coat!”

“I’m sorry...there was nothing more I could have done.”

“You could have left him alive! If you played daddy’s favorite song on the music box, I know he would have remembered, but you killed him!” Her face reddened, tears welling up in her eyes before she ran away, footsteps echoing through chapel on each stair. She ran to the nun and embraced her thick skirts, while the woman’s eyes stayed trained on Bevan, her sharp glance stabbing at him.

He made no attempt to follow, knowing he lacked the words to repair the situation. He sighed and exited through the chapel’s main door, leaning up against the wall. A few minutes late, the lady of the night stepped over the threshold, a small smile on her lips as she leaned beside him. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sailor. My name is Arianna.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’d rather you call me Bevan. How did you know…?”

“I meet quite a few sailors in my profession.” She said. “That, and I saw the tattoos on your hand.”

Bevan gave a half smile to that, taking his other glove off.  _ HOLD FAST. _  “Keen eyes I see. From my whaling days.”

“Now, what brings a sailor so far from shore? Tired of whales so thought you’d try beasts?”

He laughed without much mirth. “I’d prefer the seas to this gods-forsaken town.”

“Oh, I rather my feet be on dry land, enough excitement here as it is.” She reached into her bodice and retrieved a thin cigarette. “Share one with me?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Bevan pulled a matchbook from his pocket and lit the cigarette at her lips; she inhaled before passing it on to him. The tobacco was cheap but he savored it anyway, letting it blow the incense from his lungs.

“She’ll come back around, you know.” Arianna said after he passed it back. “The girl, I mean. She’ll forgive once she understands.”

Bevan shrugged. “Doesn’t matter much, I’ll be gone by first light. I just worry if she’ll have somewhere to go.”

“I know a few ladies who will take her in, not even whores, mind you. Maids for some of the church. She’ll go to work for them when she’s older, so she won’t ever go hungry.”

Bevan nodded, taking another puff. “I appreciate that.”

She smiled. “Then what’s your story, then? How did you come to your reluctant change in career?”

“Haven’t sailed for years.” He said. “Work the docks when the pay is good, rob them when it isn’t. I’d still be doing that too, except I got sick, so now I’m here.”

“Common enough story, but that makes it no less tragic. I’d like to help you, but all I can offer is my blood.”

“More blood.” Bevan said as he took another puff. “Was hoping you’d offer to hunt some beasts.”

Arianna laughed. “I’m afraid not! Enough beasts in a whore’s work, I’d rather not invite anymore. Come find me in the morning if  _ that’s _  what you’re interested in.”

“Appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll take the blood.” He gave a half smile. “Let me know if you ever have a whale problem though.”

She seemed relieved, as though she had to make the offer. Her shoulders relaxed as she put out the butt with her heel - shoes yellow with bows. From her dress she pulled a knife, not too long; she stuck the tip of the blade in her arm so blood welled to the surface and collected it in a glass vial until it filled enough for a sip. She handed it to him, still warm, before he helped her wrap the wound in cloth. She coached him through the process with familiarity and he saw scars marking old ministrations.

“There, that should do it. Come back later and I will offer you what more I can spare.” She put a hand on his forearm. “Take care when you return to your hunt - I fear this one is more grave than the others. There’s a queer scent in the air.”

Assuring her that he would, he descended the chapel steps, one glance back to see she had already shut the doors. Alone again in Yharnam, he hefted the saw cleaver from his back, the weight of it and his new coat offering some comfort as howls replaced silence. He pulled a yellow mask over the bottom half of his face, dampening the metallic smell that hung in the air.

He had seen the woods when he first arrived in Yharnam, so he had a fair idea of which direction to head in. The streets had darkened since the sun descended, but he could still see well in the moonlight. A chill hung in the air, though the wind was still nowhere to be seen; it stung his face as he walked, no familiar scent of salt. He kept a pinch of the mineral in his tobacco tin so he would carry a bit of home with him. A reminder of the sea that may bring some luck yet.

Yharnam seemed a very unlucky city indeed; he wondered if perhaps they gave up good fortune in exchange for their healing blood, but what point were their gods if they only brought woe? To keep the misfortune from sticking to him, he turned anti-clockwise three times. He had known a man aboard the  _ Covenant _  who always touched his collar for good luck, but Bevan wondered if that still held when wearing a dead man’s coat. He kept his fingers clear out of caution.

As he passed windows in the Cathedral Ward, fewer voices whispered and he saw only a handful burning incense. Most quieted as his footsteps approached, muttering  _ hunter _  or  _ outsider _  at equal frequency. His eyes scanned for a blue lantern, but everywhere he saw only red and he wondered what brought this tomb prospector to differentiate himself so. He moved through the city like he imagined Eileen did, clutching to shadows, avoiding sight, but so far, he only came across the corpses of inflicted hunters. Some even had fresh wounds, iron-scented blood pooling from the laceration. Another hunter surely, but were they like the crow or Henryk?

As he slipped into an alleyway, he froze as he saw shadows against the brick walls, afflicted hunters carrying their improvised weapons on patrol. He ducked behind a stoop, crouching with saw cleaver ready. Their torches lit half-turned faces, fangs sticking out from odd angles and the first signs of developing muzzles visible. He held his breath as they walked past him, waiting for a sign of them noticing him but none turned their heads. He thought to the harried group hiding in the chapel, beset on all sides by the addled mobs. These former neighbors were the same ones that would keep them trapped there, praying for the morning’s light.  _ Kill a few beasts _ . Perhaps Gehrman’s words had merit.

Bevan burst from the shadows, driving his blade through the spine of the first hunter who cried out before he crumpled to the ground. The other two whirled to face him, but already he swung again, tearing into the arm of the one holding the torch. The last hunter thrust with his pitchfork but Bevan leapt to the side, transforming his saw into a cleaver with the same momentum. Before the two hunters could gather for retaliation, his cleaver swept clean through their throats.

Blood splattered the brick behind them, morbid shadow figures’ heads slipped from their shoulders to the ground and were followed soon by their bodies. The torchlight burned for a few moments before the accumulating blood extinguished the flame and left the alley in darkness again. He stood between the bodies, a thrill in his heart as blood dripped from his blade.

A gunshot rang out followed by a brick crumbling where the bullet sank into the wall. Coming around the corner, a hunter aimed his rifle from under a top hat, beady eyes locked onto Bevan. He dove down and the bullet ripped through his coat. Sweeping his cleaver down, he sliced the arm off the hunter before coming around again for the killing blow. Two more followed and he dispatched them similarly.

By the time he reached the end of the alley, his coat was dyed red and blood dripped with each step he took. The flutter in his chest felt like an old friend’s return, as though he had only been waiting to return to this, this  _ violence.  _ It exhilarated and invigorated, just as the blood had, maybe even more so. This was the rebirth Yharnam had promised him, for the first time since the illness had taken him, he was  _ alive. _

He cut a bloody path through the Cathedral Ward, corpses of hunters marking his trail. He barely noticed the blows they landed on him, a few bruises, some scrapes, nothing he was not already accustomed to. Adrenaline numbed him to everything but the hunt and the blood vials he picked from his victims. By the time he saw the peaks of treetops below the city, he had been fighting on the wall long enough to have left a pool of blood at his boots.

Taking a deep breath, Bevan calmed himself enough to return to his current situation, though his heart still thundered in his chest. Exhaustion weighed at his arms and he nearly dragged his cleaver along the ground. Moonlight muddled his mind and left him stumbling through his thoughts. It felt like he had left Oedon Chapel ages ago, yet the moon still hung low in the sky; had so little time really passed? Continuing his hunt until not a single beast stood in the street tempted him, but he could not shake the lone thought of the blue lantern waiting for him.

He scanned windows facing the woods, most were dark and a handful glowed red, but only after a few minutes of searching did he see bright cyan around the corner. Boots echoing on the stone, he broke into a run to the window and saw the blue lamp, a pulsing light unlike firelight. It reminded him of the fish that sometimes washed ashore or were caught in nets, pulsing dots of light going down their backs, their only illumination in the deep sea.

His hand hesitated as he went to knock on the door, but before he regained his nerve, a voice answered from inside:

“Oh, and who is this lurking outside my window? A hunter of beasts? How curious indeed…”

Bevan wiped away some of blood from his face as he caught his breath. “Are you the tomb prospector? Eileen sent me to ask for your assistance.”

A laugh from inside and he could see a pale face behind the grimey window. “Oh yes, I’ve delved through the catacombs below many a time. A great many things that would please a hunter like yourself.”

“I’m looking for a chalice that will help me learn more about Loran. She said you might have come across one?”

“Loran? A frightful place, more so on such a long night, but someone has to clean up the mess, I suppose. I will do you this kindness, put you on the tenebrous path, yes. Step lightly round to the right of the great cathedral, and seek an ancient, shrouded church.” The window opened, just a crack so that a small stone could be pushed through. “This will grant you safe passage, of this I’m very certain…”

Bevan lifted the stone, surprised by its lightness. The surface was latticed so that round blemishes covered it on every side, looking neither handmade nor natural. As he touched the smooth, gray blemishes, the hair on his arm rose and a tingle went up his spine.

“This stone, it’s-”

“The gift of the godhead, yes. Truly you are fortunate to have come to my window tonight. Terrible to even consider the implications if you had come calling while I was out.”

Bevan dropped the stone in his pocket, feeling some relief as it left his grasp, but still aware of its curvature. “Thank the gods it didn’t come to that…” he muttered as he turned to take his leave.

Before he stepped more than a few feet, the prospector called back, “Say...you don’t happen to be a bastard do you?”

He bristled, clenching his teeth as he turned back to the window. “What?”

“Oh, I can hear it in your voice...I’m certain you are.” The man laughed and the sound echoed through the empty street. Bevan felt his cheeks go red, but kept walking away, glad he had already killed anyone who might see him flushed. He heard the man’s laughter even after he turned the corner, following him as he traced his path by the dead hunters and back into central Cathedral Ward.

* * *

 

The Grand Cathedral towered over the Ward so Bevan had little trouble finding it, but ran into resistance reaching it. The twisted servants of the church patrolled the district, wielding staves and crosses enchanted with some arcane magics. His first confrontation with them nearly killed him as two attempted to route him to a giant slumbering at the end of a boulevard. Luck had him however, and he managed to slide beneath the giant’s legs before it crushed the cobblestones where he had been standing.

Cutting down the church servants required only a few swings of his saw before they fell to the ground, white faces frozen in a state of surprise. He continued on, stepping through a dozen streets that led to an equal number of flights of stairs. His muscles ached and he wondered if drinking a blood vial might be worth it before he proceeded to the church the prospector had spoke of.

He took a few moments to rest, leaning against a wall as he caught his breath. He pulled a blood vial from his pockets, his mouth watering as he reached for the stopper, but as soon as he pulled it free, sharp teeth dug into his arm. The vial fell, shattering as it the hit the ground and the teeth dug deeper into his flesh. A ragged hound had him, eyes wild and mouth foaming. He tried to shake his arm free, but the effort knocked him off balance and onto his back.

Shards of glass poked through his coat and dug into his palms as he tried to stand up again. The hound released his arm and began to circle, Bevan’s blood dripping from its mouth. He retrieved his pistol from his coat, leveling it at the dog’s head, but before he could pull the trigger, frenzied barks came from behind him. Another hound bit into his shoulder, dragging him along the ground and away from the first. He cried out as he felt the teeth scrape against his collarbone and fired his pistol, but the bullet flew over the beast’s shoulder.

The first hound grabbed his leg, getting only boot initially before tossing it aside and sinking into the skin. They pulled at each end, growling as they tore muscle and Bevan screamed in agony. With his free arm he grabbed at his saw cleaver where it had fallen to the ground. He could not reach the hound at his foot without extending the blade and possibly cutting himself so he slashed upward to the other dog, receiving a squeal in response. The teeth released from his shoulder and gave him a moment’s rest from being stretched in both directions.

This broke a moment later when the hound began pulling him by the foot down the street. Every time he tried to pull his leg back, the hound shook his foot, tearing into more muscle as it did so. He could hear the other hound’s claws scratching the stonework as it followed, growling. Swinging his blade, Bevan tried to free himself from its grasp but every swing ran too high.

He aimed his pistol, trying to get a clean shot but it rang off into the distance. Suddenly the pressure released from his foot as the hound, ears up, began to back away before breaking into a run down an alleyway. The other hound took its place, sniffling the mangled stump that had been his foot.

The ground shook and a looming creature stepped into view, grabbing the hound by the head with one hand. Its long fingers twisted around the whimpering beast’s skull before clenching, popping its head and sending blood and brains dripping through its hand. It dropped the hound’s body and turned a shrouded face toward Bevan on the ground. Over its shoulder, it hauled a bloody sack, heavy and dripping. It made little sound beyond the heavy footsteps of its bare feet, but Bevan could see its mouth had just broken into a sharp-toothed smile.

Bevan dragged himself backward, what remained of his foot pulsing with pain and leaving a bloody smear on the cobblestone. His head spun from the blood loss but he was aware enough to feel terror as the creature’s hand stretched out reaching for him. He fired each of the remaining bullets in his pistol, still pulling the trigger as it emptied, but they did nothing to curtail its approach. His body screamed for him to use his saw but a glow emanating from its outstretched palm froze his muscles in place so he could do nothing but watch as the creature sunk its fingers into his shirt.

It lifted him into the air until he was level with its face, breath smelling of decay. For a moment, it held him there suspended, appraising him like a piece of meat. Then it swung its arm down, throwing him onto the ground hard. Bevan’s vision darkened as he saw the creature drop its bag to the ground.


	5. Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In depths of Yahar’gul, Bevan escapes his living nightmare with youthful memories of a better time.

* * *

Bevan awoke to darkness.

His head ached worse than any hangover and his his thoughts struggled to focus. More than anything though, his foot throbbed and when he tried to move his toes, he realized he could not feel them.

This was wrong - he should have awoken in the dream or Oedon Chapel, but here he felt only cold, dank air and a trace of torchlight around a corner. As he tried to regain his bearings, he was confronted by the terrifying possibility that he had not died. If the creature wanted him alive, for what terrible purpose could it intend?

His heart raced, but this made him lightheaded and he had to catch himself with his arm before he fell to the floor again. He could not lose his composure yet, not before he found a way back from wherever he was. But as he made an attempt to stand, he cried out in agony when his foot scraped across the stone. The pain consumed his thoughts as it flared again and he collapsed.

He wanted to cry for help - for someone, anyone who might have the slightest goodwill toward him, but he heard nothing but dripping water. Calling out could just as easily summon the creature back sooner. Did it intend to eat him? Or perhaps it brought him here to use as cattle for his blood. Both left his stomach in knots.

He had been stripped of most of his possessions: no gun or saw cleaver could be found. However, he felt through his pockets and found his bolt hunter badge and tobacco tin. He even found a few gold coins still stuffed away. He had almost hoped that they would have taken those as well; rather they be interested in robbing him than some darker alternative.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized any attempt to escape would have been useless, even if his foot had not been mangled. The creature had left him in a cell, iron bars on all sides except for a stone wall. His only companions were a man, half-changed by beasthood, and a skeleton with dust and spiderwebs collecting on its bones. Outside his cell, he could see a doorway that the torchlight shone through and a staircase leading downward. The celldoor had a padlock that maybe he could have broken open given time and two functioning feet.

 _Thud. Thud._ Heavy footsteps echoed from outside the room as torchlight revealed a cloaked creature entering. Fear clutching at his stomach, he pushed himself backwards with his hands, but only found the cold stone wall and his skeletal companion. The creature did not acknowledge him at first, stomping through the room as though it would descend the stairs. But then it stopped, turning its shrouded head to where Bevan sat. It approached the cell door, retrieving jingling keys from beneath its cloak. The door scraped grooves into the floor as it opened, the rusted metal burgundy in the low light.

Moving with purpose, it loomed over Bevan and reached its long fingers down to grab ahold of his coat. He tried to resist, pushing and scratching at its arm, but it either did not notice or did not care. It dragged him across the floor, away from his cell companions and out through the doorway. His foot throbbed as they moved, but he did nothing more than grit his teeth.

Here, he could see a staircase leading up to what appeared to be the ground floor of the building, but the creature brought him lower still through another room lined with cells. More half-beasts sat in the cells, some bleeding, others dead, but a few still unharmed that watched him with great interest as the creature dragged him. Two hunchbacked creatures scuttled near the door, laughing behind tattered cloth veils. They carried strange implements that looked like spoons, rusted and stained with blood.

In the next room, Bevan felt his heart freeze as he saw two more cloaked creatures like the one that had him. They stood around a table that reminded him of the one he received his blood ministration on, with a cart next to it holding metal tools as well as several vials. A single torch lit the room with the barest light, but it was enough for him to see the pale grins beneath the creatures’ cloaks.

It lifted up from the ground, legs kicking but only finding air. It then laid him down upon the table, the other two working quickly to strap his limbs down. His foot pulsed in pain and he looked down and saw an unrecognizable mass of flesh, cracking, dry blood mixed with fresh flowing. The leather straps dug into his skin as he tested their strength, but he could find no way to loosen them. It finally dawned on him that he was not going to get out of this; he was helpless at the mercy of these creatures. His heart raced and he renewed his struggles as he saw one of them lift a knife from the cart beside him. With deliberate precision, it brought the blade down.

 

* * *

 

When the pain became too much, Bevan fell into memories.

“Does it hurt?”

Bevan, younger now, sat on the musty couch his friend had found in an abandoned apartment. Plague had ravaged this port town, and since then moss and sand had reclaimed the streets. The captain had made port here despite the rumors of ghosts; he prefered to risk the possibility of hauntings to the certainty of a storm. Most of the crew had set up shop in the old tavern, draining the forgotten kegs to pass the time, but they had slipped away after their first few drinks.

Crouched, needle in hand, beside him was Thomas, face still soft before infection would leave it blackened and swollen. Bevan’s eyes lingered on the curvature of his lips, the dip of collarbone that peeked from his shirt. Who’s idea had this been? He wanted to blame the alcohol, but his cheeks had been flushed before they cracked the first keg. Thomas asked the question again, but the words passed through him.

“Bevan? Are you alright?”

“What?” He asked, shaken back into the moment. Thomas had lifted the needle, the skin around the half-finished tattoo bright red.

“I asked you if it hurts.”

“Oh.” He said, heart fluttering for a moment at the soft concern in Thomas’ voice. “No, not really. Feels more like a scratch.” This was not his first tattoo, but the first on his chest. On his arms, he had several: an anchor, a whale, a harpoon. But this marked his first 5,000 miles, a swallow.

Thomas gave him a doubtful look. “Where’s your head? You’re quiet, even for you.”

His mouth dried. He felt Thomas’ warmth on his chest and he wondered if they had ever been so close before. Sunlit days on the deck had been passed shirtless and glistening as they collected the whales’ oil in their barrels. Their shoulders had pressed against each other as the heat bore down, but that was among the crew. Without company, an aura of intimacy fell over every shifting muscle beneath skin, every breath shared just between them. He felt exposed, caught between excitement and wanting to cover up. He wished Thomas would give him some hint, some sign, but he rarely looked up from the task at hand. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking, huh?” Thomas smiled and went back to his work. “You’re very hard to read, you know. I think for a second I know what’s going in your head, but I’m always wrong.”

The needle poked deeper into his skin and he flinched, sucking air between his teeth. “Careful…”

“Sorry.” Thomas muttered, taking a wet towel to wipe away the drops of blood that had risen to the surface. His hands moved so delicately - the hands of a lifelong student, not a sailor. They would be calloused soon enough.

“Why did you leave?” Bevan blurted, trying to hold back the flush rising to his face. “I mean, the college. Why would you join a whaling crew?”

Thomas’ eyes flicked up toward Bevan’s face before returning to the tattoo. “I’m surprised it took you this long to ask. Why now?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Just curious.”

Frustrated, Bevan quieted for a minute, but his own curiosity beat out his stubbornness. “Your hands. They’re too soft, I mean. Your family, their estate...why give it up?”

A few moments of silence passed while Thomas continued his work, before he spoke, not looking up. “I know. Do you resent me?”

“No.”

“Be honest.”

“Some.” Bevan admitted. “Would have killed to have all that. Can’t understand why you would prefer this.”

“And that was the problem with it.” Thomas said. “What did I do to earn that? Nothing. I was just born into the right family. Everyone at the college thought so highly of themselves, looking down on everyone else. I was sick of their - I don’t know - _vanity_. I could not bear staying another day there when I knew the world was waiting outside the college!”

A smile formed on the edge of Bevan’s mouth as he heard Thomas’ passion. “And was it everything you imagined?”

“Of course not!” He laughed. “Nothing could have prepared me for all the blood, and the constant smell of beer and piss. But I won’t go back, even if my family would allow me.”

“They didn’t support you.”

“No, though I didn’t expect them to. I ended up the disappointment after all. They said I had my head caught up in stories and would die in a gutter.” Thomas furrowed his brow and Bevan found himself counting each of the wrinkles. “What brought you to sailing; you didn’t dream of this as a child, surely?”

Bevan shifted his gaze, shameful at the sudden reminder of their differences of class. “It was either this or working the docks, and whaling pays better. Mum couldn’t send me to school so never had the chance to learn my letters. The day I turned fourteen I sailed off with my first crew.”

“ _Fourteen?_ ” Thomas gasped. He had stopped tattooing, but his hand still rested on Bevan’s chest. “Gods, at that age I...I must sound like a bloody idiot. Going on about finding my own path while it was the only one available to you…”

Bevan dared not move. He feared any misread intentions, any mistakes could ruin everything. He wanted to get closer, close any gap between them, but the risks were too great. He couldn’t afford to lose his friendship, not his, never his. But they were so close, he could smell traces of salt on his skin, lingering memories of the sea.

“I could teach you - your letters. Here,” Thomas said as he pulled away so that he could grab the paper he sketched the swallow onto. Bevan felt cold with the separation, but caught his breath, willing his heart to slow.

Thomas took his time, tracing out each shape. Two words stood next to each other by the time he finished, the first five letters and the second three. Thomas wrote out the same letters again below in a twirling script. “There, your name and then that’s how you sign it. Now, you can say at least you know you’re own letters!” The smile of his face glowed, even in the musty room. “You’re being awfully quiet again, are you sure you’re alright?”

He nodded, though the lie was obvious by his trembling hands. He picked up the paper, feeling the ink with his fingertips where Thomas had written his name. His own hands were so rough from labor, but he wondered if they would have been soft if he had gone to school. He could have bought his mother a house, taken care of her, and been someone educated and interesting enough to hold a conversation with someone like Thomas. Here on the paper was just his name, but the gift was among the greatest he ever received.

A warm hand touched his back, so gentle but striking him like lightning. “Bevan. Bevan. I may not be able to read you, but I can tell that you’re troubled. What’s wrong?”

“You’re wasting kindness on me.” Bevan managed. “You could be spending time with someone of class, instead of some bastard, born in dirt and I’ll die in dirt.”

“That’s not true.” Thomas’ hand wrapped around his forearm, demanding his full attention even with such a soft grip. “That’s not true. Not twenty-five yet and you’ve already traveled halfway around the world!” He moved his hand to Bevan’s chest, where the swallow flew half-shadowed, and traced his fingertip around the wing. “Already you’ve seen more than any of those dottards at university.” His palm pressed down over Bevan’s heart, raising his eyes up to meet his. “Your heart is beating so fast…”

Bevan leaned forward, putting his hand on the back of Thomas’ neck. The hand on his back pulled him closer, closer until their noses brushed and lips found each other’s. His lips were softer than he ever imagined, pressed against his own so he could smell salt and feel his heat. They separated after a moment, just enough so they could catch their breath with their foreheads pressed together. Elation flooded his mind and all he could think was that he wanted more, more. Thomas’ fingers worked into hair, pulling their lips together again.

How long had he waited, how long had he wanted this, and it was oh so much sweeter than he imagined. And how many times he had dreamed of it, during late night whisperings below deck to drunken laughter outside the tavern - dreaming of it, yes, but never daring to cross into this unknown territory. But now, feeling nothing but unbridled joy to know these thoughts had been mutual, he had to make up for so much lost time. His touch was greedy, hands running under his shirt up to his collarbone, rubbing his thumb against the dip in his skin just as he had imagined. The next thing he knew, he was on top of Thomas on this forgotten stranger’s couch, giving himself over to his impulses as he took and took everything he gave him.

 

* * *

 

Bevan had lost a lot of blood. He was dying, but slowly and the creatures supplied him with just enough blood to keep him from passing out. He prayed to every god, his own and Yharnam’s, that he would die soon so his suffering would end. They cut into his skin, small at first, but then deeper and deeper so they could stick bits of metal inside. They gave him breaks while they operated on other patients, though captives seemed the better word. The lulls lasted what felt like hours, but it was never enough time for the pain to fade.

His thoughts of Thomas offered some comfort, youthful memories of a different time. He wished he could drown in them, because every time he surfaced, the terrible reality became too much to bear. He had spent so long fleeing those memories, only now to welcome them in this dark cellar. How could he have squandered these thoughts for so long to some forgotten corner of his mind? He wondered if he really should have died along with him on that boat, drifting at sea.

A stomp as one of the creatures returned, carrying with it a long blade that glinted in the firelight. He hoped that this would end it all, free him from this nightmare and the even more terrible dream. The creature hefted the blade over his bare chest.

“Please...” He managed, his voice raspy.

The creature granted his wish, sinking the blade with one swift motion between his ribs. The air fled his lungs, blood coming up from his mouth. He welcomed the darkness as it consumed his vision.

 

* * *

 

 

Bevan opened his eyes, but not to the dream. His foot regrown and his body whole, he found himself standing beside a lantern in a dark church. In the distance echoed chanting in some unknown language that scratched at his mind and blurred his thoughts. Panting, he tried to find his bearings in the dim light, but the crumbling architecture bore down on him. He stood atop an alter overlooking a long hall where dark figures moved among the shadows. A part of him realized he had his weapons again, but before he got the chance to pull them, a weight slammed into his back.

He fell to the ground, and rolled over the see the shrouded creature bearing down on him again. He took out his pistol and aimed at its head, but he never had the chance to pull the trigger. With a glow from its hand, his muscles froze and the creature grabbed him by his shirt once again. He cried out, pleading with the creature for mercy but it ignored his cries, dragging him back into the bowels of the church…

 

* * *

 

Bevan knew his nose was broken when he heard the crack.

First Mate Dennison shook out his hand, droplets of blood falling onto the deck, some of his own and some of Bevan’s. Bevan had never seen him smile before, but now a satisfied smirk sat on his face. “Face ain’t so pretty anymore, now is it Fox?”

Bevan wiped blood from his face, dazed but still stubborn. His face throbbed as more blood spurted out, but he still held his fists up to continue the brawl. “Captain doesn’t keep me around for my looks.”

Dennison spat. “Don’t know the real reason. This were my ship, the only thing we’d bring dirty bastards like yourself on deck for would be bait.”

Bevan swung his fist but Dennison ducked faster. Before he could recover, a fist impacted his cheek and he hit the floor. Blood pooled in his mouth and his head swam. He tried to stand back up, making it onto all fours before he received a kick in the gut, followed by laughter. This time he collapsed, swollen face against the deck and make no attempts to stand up again.

After more jeering, Dennison and his two followers left him there. It was a few minutes before Thomas found him, feet thudding against the deck as he ran. Kneeling at his side, Thomas put a hand on his aching cheek. “Bevan! Gods, who did this...your face…”

Rolling over, Bevan coughed up another chunk of blood. “Well, is it true? Am I not pretty anymore?”

“Dennison, then.” Thomas’ jaw set. “You shouldn’t have done that. He’ll have more for you later.”

“I’ll be faster next time.” Bevan sat up slowly, steadying himself on Thomas’ arm. “You didn’t hear what he said.”

Thomas helped him back up to his feet, straining to support his weight under his arm. “Come on then. Let’s get you cleaned up before the captain sees.”

They stumbled up the stairs to the top deck, Bevan needing the aid of the wall and Thomas’ shoulder to make it up the stairs. The sun had set over the horizon since his brawl with Dennison, the sky the deep purple of twilight. Thunderheads sat on the horizon, flashes of blue lightning illuminating the clouds over the sea. Sitting him down on a crate beside the ship’s railing, Thomas hauled up a bucket of water from the side.

He soaked an old rag in the salt water before blotting it to Bevan’s face. It stung his nose when it touched, making his eyes water. The blood ran down his face, pink after mixed with the seawater. Despite the pain, he liked the feeling of the cold water on his cheeks.

Remnants of a dead whale were tied to the ship, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. A few times a day they cast nets below, catching the fish that followed for an easy meal. The last hunt had been messy, nearly spilling them from their whale boats when the beasts had launched a counterattack. The whales dove out of sight, surfacing to bump the bottoms of their boats and sending them reeling. The biggest among them bashed its tail on the surface, casting up great waves that threw them off balance and nearly off their boats. It was then Thomas’ spear sliced into his forearm.

Bevan caught Thomas’ arm as he went to dab his face again. Thomas opened his mouth in surprise as Bevan rolled his sleeve up, but did not pull back. The wound, though stitched together, was surrounded by red, inflamed skin. Bevan touched the area around it gently with his index finger, eliciting a hiss from Thomas.

“That hurt.” Thomas said, now trying to pull his arm away.

“It’s infected.” Bevan responded, his mouth a thin line. “We need to get you to a real doctor when next we’re in port.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. I’ve seen injuries shallower than this kill whalers before.”

“You fuss like an old maid.” Thomas said, lips forming a half-smile. “But don’t worry. I’ll go to the clinic. Now, just let me see what I can do with your face.”

“How bad is it?”

He ran his finger down his nose, and Bevan couldn’t help but flinch back. Thomas frowned and brought the rag back to his face. “Definitely broken. I don’t know how well it will heal.”

“So not pretty then.”

“You won’t think this is so funny when the captain leaves you behind for causing trouble.”

Bevan leaned forward, putting his hand on Thomas’ thigh. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Thomas blushed and accidentally let the rag slip from his hand. It landed with a _plop_ in the sea just as Bevan closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to Thomas’. He loved flustering him, a power he never knew he had until recently. As he pulled away, he saw a smear of blood across Thomas’ cheek.

“Of course you are.” Thomas finally said, a small sigh falling from his lips. “I just wish there’s something I could do to stop Dennison from laying another hand on you.”

“Unless you can find me a father, I don’t see much hope in trying.”

“Do you remember my first day on the _Covenant?_ ” Thomas asked.

“Of course, you were awake till near dawn, losing your dinner to sea sickness over the starboard railing.” Bevan laughed, but cringed as pain radiated from his nose.

“Gods I was embarrassed.” He shook his head. “Thought I’d made the biggest mistake of my life and should row back to shore and beg the college and my family to take me back. But then you, more handsome than I ever expected a sailor would be, came and sat by my side.”

This time Bevan felt his cheeks get hot. “I saw another soul down on his luck. Better we pariahs stick together.”

Thomas laughed and Bevan’s heart jumped - gods, he would go to any length to keep his attention. Every laugh, every smile he earned was better than any drug, any payment any other could offer him. He would jump in the ocean if he thought that would garner Thomas’ approval. But he didn’t have to. He could just sit here, bleeding out his broken nose and with his defenses lowered. He just had to be himself.

The thunderheads moved in from the horizon as the sky darkened. They could hear the roll of thunder pass over them and knew the storm would be rough tonight. Lightning flashed and struck the ocean’s surface just as the monster that would sink the _Covenant_ breached, a dozen glowing eyes trained on the ship.

 

* * *

 

Bevan’s second death came with a thunder, cries and moans he did not know his body could make. Pain had left him feral - he no longer begged them with words but by shrinking away as they entered the room, silent pleas as he shut his eyes. They dragged their operations out until Bevan felt spread paper thin. Everything they did was slow, careful, deliberate - making sure he savored every moment like patient lovers. Had he a knife, he would have cut his own heart out. Had he the opportunity, he would have fed it to them till they choked.

He was sure weeks had passed, if not longer. The hunt must have ended by now, but then how could these creatures continue their work so unmolested? _The creatures_. He had no name for them, for fear giving them one might solidify them. He wanted no word associated with them so that he would never be reminded of them if he ever escaped. This time must exist outside of memory or he feared he would fall to madness.

A machine buzzed to life behind him. The creatures went about their work around him, never rushing, never looking him in the face. For that he was grateful; he had caught glances of pointed teeth in their pale visage, only human in their shape. Flashes of blue lit the room, revealing to him the blood dried to his chest and the wires running back to the machine that had been sewn under his skin. He struggled against his restraints as the machine whined louder but he was too weak to make any real effort.

The shock came, but did not kill him right away. His whole body burned as electricity racked through his body, traveling through his blood to reach every extremity. He felt as though he were being cooked from the inside. It reached his brain and he saw flashes of multicolored lights, heard screams mixed in with his own. Before darkness finally took him, he heard one familiar voice.

“ _Your heart is beating so fast_.”

 

* * *

 

Bevan opened his eyes and saw the lantern. He rolled away and heard the slam of the creature’s bag a moment later. Back at his feet, he felt the weight of his saw at his back and saw his chance. He swung it out into cleaver form and sliced in a wide arc, striking his attacker across the arm so it dropped its sack. All the rage he built up against this creature came into focus as he attacked over and over, tearing its cloak into ribbons. It never cried out, just backpedaled until Bevan saw his opening. He drove the serrated edge into its chest, tugging until he felt bone snap, and then pulled his weapon free. It collapsed and fell over the edge to the hall below with a _thud_.

 _The lamp_ , he had to get to the lamp. He whirled around and saw two more of the creatures ascending the stairs on either side. He dove for it, too slow as one of the creatures raised its hand as it took upon that glow. His muscles seized, the saw cleaver falling from his hand, but he would not give up yet. He crawled for the lamp, reaching his hand out to grab it.

The creature grabbed him by the coat first, dragging him past it as it moved for the stairs again. “ _No, no, no, no!!_ ” Bevan cried. He dug his boots into the ground until his coat ripped and let him slip free of its grip, going for the lamp again. However his weakened muscles refused to cooperate and let him stand so all he could do was kick out his leg toward the lantern as the creature reached its hand down to grab him again.

“ _Not again! Not again, I won’t go back!_ ” He kicked it again and again as he cried out. It bent under the first few impacts as the creature began dragging him away again, but he dug his fingernails again into the ground, giving him the extra second he needed to kick one last time.

The post holding the lamp snapped and the lantern fell, shattering as it hit the ground. Cold air rushed out as the light extinguished and that blue glow faded. The creature ignored this and kept dragging him away, down the stairs now, with a bump as he went down each step. Bevan took a deep breath and pulled his pistol from his coat. He held the cold barrel to his head and pulled the trigger.


	6. Bloodied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now all too aware of the horrors Yharnam has to offer, Bevan resumes his quest for the Ailing Loran Chalice, but the rise of the Blood Moon ushers in new dangers, the first of which is the sworn enemy of an old friend.

Bevan opened his eyes to a dark chapel and knew it hadn’t worked. “No, no, no!” He cried, scrambling for his pistol in his coat. He put it to his head again, hoping this time he didn’t wake up at all.

A hand grabbed his arm and the bullet whizzed past his ear and planted into the ceiling, a cloud of dust falling onto his face. He yanked his hand back, trying to fire again, but he saw not the creature, but Arianna shouting something muffled by the ringing in his ears. The gun slipped from his shaking hand and he let her pull him into an embrace.

“Darling, it’s alright.” Her voice sounded as though under water, slowly surfacing as the ringing faded. “You’re safe here for now.” She held him close, petting his head as she cooed into his ear.

His chest heaved, eyes wide and shifting back and forth to make sure that this really was Oedon Chapel and he wouldn’t wake back up in that nightmare again. It would be a few minutes before his guard began to fall and he accepted that the creatures were not playing some trick on him to continue his torture. As he settled, he saw Virginia watching him from lower level, small fingers gripping the nun’s skirts. The nun herself glared at him with piercing eyes and he suddenly became too aware of how public his whimpering was.

He muttered to Arianna that they should go outside and she accompanied him from the chapel, handing his trembling hands a cigarette before he even had to ask. The Cathedral Ward felt darker to him than before, as though every shadow hid a new enemy. This was not him, this was a mad dog in his body, a bolt of lightning up his spine with every sound raising his hackles. He inhaled the smoke for a long time, long enough that he ended up in a coughing fit and had to pass it back to her.

“I won’t ask if you’re alright.” She said. “Won’t insult you by asking that. Better question is do you think you will be alright?”

He wiped his hands down his face, damp with sweat and his heart still thumping in his ears. “I don’t know, probably not. I can still feel their cold fingers, their knives...gods, I should never have come here. Should have died in my bed like I was supposed to.”

“You’re not the first foreigner to feel that way.” She said as she blew out a cloud of smoke. “But the morning will come, just like it always does. ”

“Can’t come soon enough.” Bevan grunted. He stayed quiet for a few minutes, the only sound their breath as they passed the cigarette between them. The tension slowly sapped from his body, but he still felt stiff, like the stress had pulled every muscle in his body. Guilt weighed on him for being seen cowering in the chapel; he didn’t want Virginia to think of him that way. If he couldn’t brave through this night, how could a child expect to? He finally spoke again, his deep voice cracking as the words came out. “What about that nun, who is she? Virginia seems taken to her, but I think she was trying to kill me with her eyes.”

“Adella is her name, and she’s made it clear she doesn’t like me very much either, but we are the black sheep of the group. The hunter that told me about this place - Mina - brought her here. She hasn’t spoken to anyone really but the hunter since she arrived.”

“And Virginia.”

Arianna turned her glance to the empty streets. “And Virginia. I’m sorry, I’ve tried but she won’t let me near the girl - says I’ve tainted blood.”

“Can’t be helped.” The words hurt Bevan to say, but he lacked the words to repair things between them. “I must thank you for the friendship you’ve offered me...I’ve spent a lot of time on my own and I’m glad I’m not tonight.”

She looked at him suspicion until she saw the genuineness in his face. “Sorry, dear, I’m too used to my clients saying the same thing. I could tell with one look that you and I are all too familiar with the dredges of the city. If we don’t stick together, all the nobles and churchfolk will crush us beneath their boots.”

Bevan wanted to smile, but his face felt too heavy. “You’re right about that. Listen...if you’re ever in my city, come find me in the harbor. I could help you start your life over there. It won’t be comfortable and it won’t be pretty, but dealing with the occasional plague is better than your neighbors turning into beasts.”

“I’ll consider that, but it wouldn’t be easy to leave Yharnam. I’ve never been anywhere else.”

“Certainly isn’t another city like it.” Bevan stamped out the cigarette under his heel, already thinking about another when a chill passed over him. He turned his head to the sky and nearly collapsed as a crimson glow overtook the moon. Red light bled from the sky as the blood moon hung low, glaring down at them like an angry eye. The sky shifted angrily as white clouds made way for sickly purple fog.

Above them, hanging from the chapel, a monstrous creature manifested, elongated arms clinging to the steeples. Its head looked like a chunk of coral, sunken recesses where a face should be. It hung over them like a waiting hawk, just needing to reach out with its six-fingered hand to catch its prey.

Bevan drew his saw, stepping in front of Arianna in case it decided to strike, but it remained suspended. It couldn’t be real, he thought, none of this could be. The red glow cast Cathedral Ward with a malevolent visage, revealing the anger and hunger in the ordinary. Steeples appeared to stab at the sky until it bled while cobblestones looked as shining scales of a horrific beast.

“Oh…” Arianna moaned behind him, stumbling back. “There’s something wrong with me…”

Bevan put a hand under her arm to support her and saw her face had flushed a bright red. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“I don’t feel right, not at all.” Her legs collapsed beneath her, with only his arm holding her up. Lifting her up with care, he brought her inside to the chair on the dias, easing her into the seat. “Thank you, darling...you’re too kind.”

“Is there anything I can get for you?” He asked. “Water? Blood?”

“Perhaps a sedative? The old woman...I’ve seen her take some for her nerves.”

The old woman sat in her chair below the dias, hands in her lap that moved as though she had her knittings. Her mouth twitched beneath her bonnet but Bevan did not hear any words even as he approached her. “Do you have any sedatives? Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

“The doctor’s not in...you won’t be having any blood today, I’m afraid. You and mummy will just have to make do with what I’ve got left.” The old woman giggled, hands still going about her phantom knitting. Bevan did not have the patience though to get through her ramblings and grabbed some of the glass vials she had scattered at her feet, checking to see which still had any liquid left. He found two that together seemed to have enough of the thick blood for an entire dose.

As he went to return to the dias, an unfamiliar voice spoke from behind him, sending a chill up his spine. “The bastard hunter caught in the trap…” She giggled madly, looking up at him from her downturned face. “Taken away by the hulking brutes to cry for hours and hours…’ _ Thomas, Thomas, come and save me, Thomas! _ ’ But he didn’t come did he? No, but the kind, brave hunter came for  _ me _ .”

“What?” Bevan said, his heart pounding. “How could you hear that? Please, what do you know?”

She laughed again, the shrill sound grinding against his eardrums. “You never really leave that place, the shrouded village of Yahar’gul. ’ _ Thomas...Thomas, please kill me! _ ’ Where was your strength then? A bastard loses his sword and just comes crumbling down…”

His face went red as she mocked his voice. He stepped closer looking to get answers or at least redeem his pride, but she shrieked and Virginia cowered, hiding behind her. The nun gripped the hilt of a dagger at her belt as she hissed, “ _ Get away from us with your filthy, bastard blood! _ ”

Bevan held up his hands, but she did not back down and he was forced to give up on getting any answers from her. He heard another pained groan from Arianna and knew he couldn’t keep her waiting any longer. As he climbed the steps, he had to clench his teeth as, behind him, Adella continued taunting him. “ _ I’m so frightened, Thomas! They’ve filled me with iron, Thomas!” _

By the time he reached Arianna, he was shaking, the bottles dancing in his unsteady hands as he offered them to her. She downed both voraciously, slumping back into her chair with a long sigh of relief. “Ah that’s much better, thank you. I know you can’t spend the night looking after me, but, if you find anymore, could your bring them to me? I don’t expect this to be enough to last until the druggist opens tomorrow.”

Though distracted, he promised he would return with more before he took his leave of Oedon Chapel, scurrying out so he wouldn’t have to hear the nun any longer. The red moon still burned above him and brought up thoughts of the creatures bathing in the ghastly glow. He felt the cigarette tin in his pocket, imagining the texture of the salt grains between his fingers. His gods, the gods of sea and sand, were so far from Yharnam, the city with the stale air and still water. Here the moon loomed to threaten them, revealing itself to be a malignant eye just when things seemed at their lowest. His moon, for the one here was an alien one, was a guiding beacon, marking the path for sailors through the night and counting the days until they would return ashore. He remembered when he had watched it wane and then wax again as he sat adrift in the whaleboat with Thomas’ body, smelling worse by the day.

He had meant to die alongside him after the first day, but had only a knife and not the stomach to do the deed himself. He waited for starvation to set it, but that fate frightened him more as his skin began to hang loose and the delirium set in. On one of those sun-bleached days, he imagined that they were lords holidaying in one of the tropical ports, but the illusion broke when he had to chase away the seagull that had begun feasting on Thomas’ face.

Guarding his body had been a near constant chore. The smell brought all manner of seafowl to their small boat, and worse creatures of the deep that he would catch for food after he lost his nerve for starving to death. He begged the captain of the fishing vessel to bring Thomas aboard, but she could not be convinced when they still had another month before they would return to port. The captain, born in the Hinterlands, did the rites for her people’s sky burial and then left him for the birds.

Before long, he stood at the foot of the Grand Cathedral again. A few of the church servants tried to block his path but were dispatched with a few swings of his cleaver. Although Oedon Chapel had seemed large at first, he had to crane his head back for even a hope of seeing the cathedral spires. The doors, massive in their own right, had been left ajar, enough of a gap for warm candlelight to escape. Inside, sounds of combat and the smell of blood, but before he could enter to investigate, a mass of feathers burst through the door before collapsing.

Eileen the Crow kneeled in a blossoming pool of her own blood, clutching at a wound in her stomach. She breathed heavy and ragged, her daggers dropped carelessly on the ground. She looked up at him behind that crow mask and he imagined surprise on her face. “Oh, is that you again? I see you took to Henryk’s coat.” Her haggard breaths echoed through her mask as she clutched at the wound in her side. “I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a blunder.”

Bevan knelt down, peeking his head through the door to make sure she wasn’t followed. He saw only a staircase bordered by stone statues leading into the main chamber. “Are you alright? What’s in there?”

“He used to be one of us, but now he’s worse than beast.” She retrieved a blood vial from beneath her feather coat, downing it between breaths. “You’d best get out of here. This is my score to settle.”

Bevan looked at her wounds, remembering when she had saved him from Henryk. “You don’t dream, do you?”

“No more for me - this is my last chance.” She spoke with resolve, but he could see that blood vials would not heal her enough to give her a fair fight. He straightened, withdrawing his saw from his back and turned to the door. Eileen called up to him, her words rushed. “Wait - what do you think you’re doing? This is my chance, my prey. You have no place here.”

He didn’t respond, stepping through the great doors of the Grand Cathedral and following Eileen’s blood trail up the tall steps. On both sides sat statues crouched in wait. They looked just like the creature that had appeared on the chapel and he now realized had heads like the stone the tomb prospector gave him, as though someone had carved out holes for many eyes but never filled them. The hair on the back of his neck rose at their blind gaze.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw him: the bloody crow. Like Eileen he wore a black feather cape, but at his hip was a flat sword, blood dripping from the blade. His face was shrouded behind a metal beak mask, filigree ornamenting each side. This crow held no trace of the Hinterlands in his step, no rugged determination, no foreign subtlety, but instead refined bloodlust and comfortable hatred. He drew his blade at Bevan’s approach, coating the metal in blood from his own hand as he did until it glowed red in the torchlight. He imagined him smiling behind that mask, though he made no sound as he waited, only that beak tracking him into the room.

The cathedral made for a grand arena; towering ceiling arching above them, glass windows letting in the bloody moonlight, and a great altar at the end, brass statues wailing at the approach of violence. The statues surrounded a beastly skull on the altar, looking as though it had been hewn by a sword from the neck of some wolf creature. He hated that sight, but couldn’t pinpoint why. He thought it might be the creature’s empty sockets, daring him to look inside and see his own rotted brain.

Bevan expanded his saw into the cleaver configuration, appreciating the range it offered. He had little experience at swordplay, always solving scuffles with either a knife or his fists. They circled each other, keeping a wide berth as they sized the other up. No doubt the bloody crow possessed more finesse, but he hoped speed or brutality would be on his side. He didn’t fear dying, not anymore, but worried what would happen to Eileen if he fell. If the bloody crow felled her at her best, what hope did she have in her current state?

A puff of smoke and the crow vanished. Bevan whirled around just as he appeared again, only feet away. He swung his bloody blade down and Bevan barely managed to sidestep. The crow vanished again and reappeared behind him. A report sounded as a bullet went through his side before coming out the other end. His gut burned where it tore through, but he kept to his feet.

He pressed an attack on the crow, pushing him back as he swung his cleaver again and again. His adversary ducked and rolled and vanished before any blow could land. Bevan did not let up on his attack until the crow’s back was against the altar then pulled the trigger on his pistol.

A flash of gunpowder and the bloody crow disappeared before appearing again a dozen feet behind him with the clatter of his blade on the floor. He knelt to pick up his blade, a hand held against a bleeding wound in his side, but he was standing with his beak trained on Bevan within moments. Rubbing bare metal against his wound, he covered his sword in blood, letting it soak up his own essence. He exhaled, satisfied, and then began an aggressive approach on Bevan.

Pushed back into the defensive, Bevan backpedaled. Blows came before he was ready, one, two, three. Each clanged off of his cleaver but came closer to his skin. The crow attacked again, and again, and Bevan found himself backed against the wall.  _ No.  _ He thought, memories of his brawl with the  _ Covenant’s _ first mate flashing before his eyes. He was not some boy anymore; he wouldn’t let a monster in silks beat him down. He waited for his moment, no sound but their breathing. One, two; inhale, exhale.

The crow swung, but Bevan parried. He caught the blade on the serrated edge of his cleaver and shoved, following up with a gunshot directly into the crow’s chest. Blood exploded out his back, splattering on the cathedral floor as he stumbled backwards. His legs wobbled and he looked about to collapse until he pulled something from his belt that shined in the light.

Bevan lunged but too late. The crow downed the blood and vanished, the blade slipping through empty air. Then, a red, hot pain through his stomach and he looked down to see a blade sticking out before it was slipped back out of his back. He stayed on his feet, no other choice, and turned to face what could only be his death.

The crow, sword dripping with both their blood, prepared to deal the killing blow. He held the blade level with Bevan’s neck and inhaled. One, two. Exhaled. One, two. He swung the blade.

A flash of light, it had to be the dream and its terrible moon, here to tell him he failed. He failed the doll and he failed Eileen, they might as well send him back to the creatures’ mercy if this was how he used his second chance. The light faded, but to reveal the cathedral: not moonlight, but the crackle of lightning.

The bloody crow had been pushed back by the force of the blast, stunned momentarily as the residual energy skipped across his sword. Bevan looked at his own blade and saw the bolts dancing across the his cleaver; he received a few jolts that escaped his weapon. It burned where it touched him, but felt like no more than the sting of a cigarette on skin.

He saw his chance and pressed the attack, coming down with his cleaver. The crow caught it on his sword, but could only deflect as Bevan put his weight behind his weapon. They dueled for dominance, but the crow had already begun to buckle beneath his strength. Bevan grit his teeth and growled as his muscles strained. He could end this. He just had to be stronger. Blood dripped from the crow’s sword; he could smell each drop as it bounced on the cathedral floor. He wanted - no, needed to spill more - it didn’t matter if it was the crow’s or his own. To see red blossom at his feet would be enough.

His cleaver scraped across the sword as the crow slipped back and a burst of sparks flew through the air. The current ran through his veins, barely contained power right beneath his skin. His brain fired off in bursts of color, just as it had while he was tied to the creatures’ operating table. But this time, the current energized him and drove him to his prey.

The bloody crow retreated, but found his back to the altar, unable to even quickstep out of range of Bevan’s cleaver. His hand moved like a blur to his hip. The report of a gun sounded, but Bevan had already rolled aside. He swung his cleaver, blade meeting skin and sending the gun to the floor. A bolt of electricity had burned where his blow struck, black smoke wisping into the air above it. This was his chance, he just had to take it, take everything the crow had. His life, his gun, his blood - payment for what he did to him, to Eileen, to Arianna, to Thomas - he would pay for  _ everything _ .

Bevan swept his cleaver along the ground, a shower of sparks illuminating the bloody crow in blue light for a moment, frozen in time. The crow held up his blade to deflect but a bolt of lightning arced across the metal and his fingers lost their grip. Bevan’s cleaver struck his chest, slicing right through skin and ribs before coming out near his shoulder. Blood cascaded from the wound, boiling where it touched electricity. The crow’s cry of pain drowned out the sizzle of his blood, ringing like music in Bevan’s ears. He switched his weapon to the saw configuration and ripped back into the wound, digging for his heart. The tendons ripped under the serrated edge, popping as they snapped. He pulled the crow close to his face with a snarl. Close enough to see his eyes through the holes in his helmet, he tore through his heart and watched the light fade from his eyes. A gurgle escaped his lips as the blood welled up in his mouth, dripping between the filigree of his helmet.

Bevan stood over where he crumpled to the ground, chest heaving and blood staining his coat from his injuries. He had won, the bloody crow was dead. Dead, dead, dead, but it wasn’t enough - how could it be? He raised his saw again, the lightning fading away. The crow, the creatures, the bloody moon - he had enough of this city. The blade came down, a splatter of blood on his face. He still felt the knives under his skin and he would have traded the wasting death of sickness if he could forget that pain and fear. Another tear. He wanted to burn down Yharnam, Loran, this cathedral. All they wanted was to take, and to take, and to take.  _ Rip.  _ He should have slit his own throat when Thomas, cracked lips and sunken eyes, choked out his last gasp.

He stumbled out of the Grand Cathedral, holding a hand against his wounds. He left the bloody crow unrecognizable at the base of the altar, chest caved in and inviting the carrion birds for their macabre feast. His own stomach twisted at the sight, the last gentle part of him not ready to take ownership of the deed. Eileen sat in the pool of her blood outside, turning to face him as he limped out. “Don’t you ever listen to your elders? You did save my life, though it looks at great cost to yourself.”

“I’ll be fine.” Bevan managed, his legs nearly buckling as he leaned against the wall to sit beside her. He tried to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve, but only managed to spread it around like paint.

“I was about to say the same thing.” She chuckled. “My glory days were long ago now, but you, here, take this.” She opened her fist, a flash of silver on her palm.

“Another badge?”

“The crow hunter badge. It was supposed to be passed to someone from the Hinterlands, but you’ll have to do. This too is hunters’ work, though it bears no honor. A burden you may choose to carry.”

He took the badge, a ring made up of outstretched wings and ending in the shape of a crow’s tail. “You know I’ve no intentions to stay in Yharnam.”

“Aye, I do.” She said, breath still ragged. “I have no expectations - the decision is yours alone. I’m glad you’ve kept your wits this long - I’m sure you’ll complete your contract.”

He thought of the bloody crow’s maimed body, suddenly feeling very ashamed. “I hope you’re right.”

“So do I.” She sighed. “Now get going. Let me rest for awhile - maybe we’ll meet again closer to the sea.”


	7. Heir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deceit brings Bevan to the Nightmare Frontier but also closer to the Chalice. A seven-armed giant stands between him and Ailing Loran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay - real life got in the way, but I hope to edit and post the remaining few chapters soon. Thank you for your patience!

### 

Bevan had been disappointed in the trip, part of him hoping he would experience some flash of insight and all letters and writing would become clear to him. Instead, it remained a confusing jumble of symbols and he had sulked as he realized what little help he had to offer Thomas. He paged through a few of the books, but they only elicited frustration and highlighted the piece he felt missing. Thomas seemed not to notice - this was before they were honest with each other. He perused the shelves mechanically, gathering a stack of books and bringing them to the table.  _ On sailing _ , he said. Bevan had crossed his arms,  _ what could a book know about sailing that you couldn’t learn at sea? _

_ Just wait _ . Thomas thumbed through the first of the books, passing block after block of text until he came to the chapter he was looking for. It began with a black print of a tall ship, sails at full mast. Bevan glanced over, but tried not to let his friend see his interest. The ship had been drawn with careful detail: he could see the crew tending to the deck, count the rope hanging from the sails, even recognize the flag she hung at the bow.

Thomas turned the page. Diagrams of knots and step by step instructions on how to tie them. Bevan leaned over Thomas’ shoulder to get a better look, trying not to be too obvious. A small smile formed in the corner of his friend’s mouth - there only for a moment before his brow furrowed again. He always looked so stern when he read, as though focusing aged him twenty years. Thomas said he didn’t like for people to see because it made him look too much like his father.

In the present, Bevan walked up to the table in this new library, leaning over to look at the jars arranged haphazardly among forgotten books. They were filled with orbs floating in a green-tinged fluid, looking almost like marbles. He tapped one of the larger ones and one of the orbs turned. An eyeball stared back from the jar, bloodshot and dilated. He stumbled back, knocking a jar to the floor in the process. A dozen eyeballs made a terrible squelch as they hit the floor, rolling away under the table and bookcases. One tapped his boot and in a panic he stomped his foot down. It popped as his heel came down, the sound wet and unnatural. Bile welled up his throat; he had to walk away from the table to regain his composure and keep from being sick.

In hope of escaping the disgusting sight, he made his exit through the oak door and found more bookshelves bordering a wide hallway. A hunter’s lamp glowed at one end and a sickly light eminanted from under a door at the other. He thought for a moment to flee to the dream with the lamp, but he still had not found the chalice. The many-armed creature had brought him here for some purpose and so far it didn’t seem entirely malignant. So he continued on between the shelves for the main door.

As he did, he heard laughter and saw another oak door to his right. “Hello?” He called out, his voice echoing. “Someone there?”

Laughter again until a voice answered. “Oh, I was so very certain, but you are even better than I anticipated. Why not throw yourself to the wolves and be done with it?”

Bevan recognized the voice immediately. He put his fist to the door. “What are you going on about, prospector? Did you know about all this?”

“What a joy it is, to behold the divine. I expect you should be giving me thanks soon...pushing you along on your destiny.”

“My what?” Bevan tried the doorknob before banging on the door again. “I’ve no more patience for games - open the bloody door! Where is the chalice?”

“You’re in my debt, you know.” The prospector said. “Your blood will be put too far greater use by the godhead than this dithering you’re wasting it on. I’ve given your life a purpose - more than a poor bastard can expect! If you’re luck continues, perchance Lord Amygdala will let you see the chalice before he feasts on your lifeblood...”

Bevan growled and hit the door again, but he only heard laughter from inside. His cheeks burned red as he stood there, feeling more foolish by the second. How easily he had fallen for the prospector’s ruse - if this even was him. Would Eileen have sent him here if she had known? The lamp still glowed behind him, though he doubted his tormenter knew its power or he would have broken it. Still, the chance that the chalice was in the hands of this Lord Amygdala was worth looking into.

He headed for the main door, noticing that a low hum crept under the door along with the golden glow. The color set him uneasy, the hue unlike any that he had seen in the natural world. No windows marked the walls of library; it could have been in a cave as far as he could tell. Taking a breath, he leaned up against the door, and pushed it open.

The light blinded him immediately. He held his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes as they adjusted to the outside. Blinking away sunspots, he was struck by the landscape before him: rocky hills turned to cliffs ending in deep fog, green in color. Dead, twisted trees marked a few of the peaks, but nothing else grew taller than strange white mushroom stalks. Within the fog, he saw the tops of ships, sails unfurled. It reminded him of the ship graveyards he had seen off of shallow coves, masts like headstones marking their deaths. The air hung dry and stale, but he caught the scent of sand. It brought him back to his home when months would pass without rain, the ocean retreating from the docks as the summer dragged on.

Bevan stepped over the threshold and turned to see the door really was built into the side of a hill, though not large enough to fit the grand library. His head spun as he tried to wrap his head around the architecture - it just wasn’t  _ right _ , it could not exist but here it was anyway. He forced his gaze away, fearing prolonged exposure might leave him addled. The path ahead snaked down a hill into a canyon, and, from what he could see from above, eventually ended with a circular valley, almost deliberately shaped.

Deciding that was as good a route as any, Bevan started down the hill. As he came around a bend, he saw a creature crouched and holding a torch. A mane flowed behind its head, similar to the beast he killed in the sewers, though this beast possessed elongated legs as well as arms. Its fur was silver on color, taking on an eerie glow in the strange gold light. He withdrew his saw cleaver from his back, the beast still unaware of his presence as he approached.

He took each step with care as he descended the hill. Before the beast, a cliff dropped off into the lower pass, with only a few inches between it and ledge. It growled - he wasn’t sure if it was directed at him but he didn’t hesitate. Bevan swept his saw into the beast’s spine. It howled in pain, trying to turn around and strike him with claws extending far past its fingertips. He ripped the saw back out and gave it a kick off the edge. It scrambled at the rocks as it fell, but could not catch its grip before tumbling down.

Bevan leaned over to watch it fall, but came face to face with its maw. Its jaw was turned sideways, giving it a vertical mouth with beady, yellow eyes on one side. It had its claws dug into the cliff face, snarling as it climbed back up to the top. Bevan leapt back just in time for the beast to hurl itself up, pouncing where he had stood a moment earlier. It crouched on all fours as static radiated from the beast’s mane, circling him and snapping its crooked jaw.

Lunging with his saw, Bevan tried to plant the blade into the beast’s head, but found its mane instead. A bolt of lightning traveled up the metal into his arm, burning his skin beneath but mostly kept at bay by his gloves.  _ The garb of the bolt hunter...it passes on to you now.  _ Electricity continued to circle his saw, oscillating in intensity with his breath. Sparks danced between his fingers - the sensation setting the hairs on the back of his neck straight up. He pressed his assault, driving the beast back toward the cliff. It growled, attempting to shock him again, but it fizzled ineffectually. In a last ditch effort, it lunged out with its head to bite off his head, but he caught the beast’s chest on his saw. The serrated edge tore right through its ribs, sparks spilling out along with blood.

Its weight collapsed on his arm, but he managed to get his weapon free before it slumped atop him. The beast’s death gave him a sense of purpose again. This made sense. The bloody crow, the many-armed creature, the door in hill, these were things beyond his understanding. But putting a beast down? He had known survival since he was young and violence did not perturb him. 

Sparks still jumped across his blade, eliciting a tingling from his fingertips with each one. First during the fight with the bloody crow and now this. He tried to recall if this had happened at any other point with his saw cleaver but could not think of an instance. The creatures in the dark church killed him once with electricity, but he tried to banish the thought from his mind. No - he would not consider that yet. He needed to test this more before his mind wandered to the more arcane explanations.

He killed several more of the beasts as he progressed through the hills. Some attempted to use fire against him, but all wielded electricity. He found their attacks had little consequence against Henryk’s garb, though he received a few scratches from where their claws grazed him. The electric current continued to race through his saw cleaver, but he could still not say for sure that it came from the silverbeasts or within himself.

He caught a glimpse of a figure on the path below, a hunter by their silhouette. He thought he might call out to them, but, before he could, another hunter appeared from a cave. The first pointed a blunderbuss at the other and blew a hole through their chest before they could even raise a hand. 

Bevan ducked an outcropping, his heart thumping loud in his chest.  _ This too is hunter’s work _ . The crow hunter’s badge felt heavy in his pocket - should he kill this rogue hunter before they have the chance to kill again? How could he know if the hunter was truly mad or if the one they killed was? Eileen would not hesitate, of this he was sure. On another day, he too would have struck the hunter down, but he could still feel where the bloody crow had stabbed him, bullets that still stuck against his muscle. Fear, not of death but of pain, stayed his hand. A beast would kill him quickly, its savage instinct driving it to mercy, but what methods could a mad hunter think up to extend his suffering?

He cursed himself, cowering behind the rocks like a child. He had not survived up to this point through caution. Everything he had in life had been taken, most often at the point of a gun. Pride compelled him to step out of hiding; he decided if he did not face this hunter, he would not forgive himself if he lived to be a hundred. He made his living killing whales, damn it! What could a single hunter offer that was more frightening than being digested alive in a whale’s gut?

Gripping his cleaver with white knuckles, Bevan stepped into the open and prepared to face the hunter. However, when he looked down into the valley, he saw nothing but the deceased second hunter, blood pooling on the rocks around them. His eyes darted around, expecting the other to have snuck around him while he was hiding, but he found no trace. He sighed, taking off his hat for a moment so he could run a hand through his hair. A fool. He was a bloody fool who was wasting time.

As he walked up to the dead hunter, he saw no sign of their killer, just a cave up ahead lit by white mushrooms. Rifling through their pockets, he found several vials of an off-red liquid and pulled the stopper to take a sniff. Not blood, he realized, but the same sedatives the old woman gave him. He gathered them all into his pocket, along with what bullets he found before heading toward the cave. He ducked his head to enter, noticing now the faces staring back at him within the rocky walls. Their mouths hung agape in shock or terror, as though they had known in their last moments what fate would befall them. Further down, a pool of shallow water overtook the cave floor and as he stepped into it, a noxious smell overtook him. His eyes burned and he began coughing, but could not catch his breath through the fumes. He pulled up his mask over his nose, easing his breathing slightly. Tears welled up his eyes and he was forced to shut them and go through the rest of the cave in a blind dash.

He stumbled through the cave, reaching out with his arms to feel the rugged walls around him. His stomach turned, not just for the noxious fumes but also as he remembered the faces carved into the rock. Each splash reminded him of when the eyeball popped in the library. A light ahead came through the cracks in his eyelids and he increased his pace, his pants soaked through now from splashing and burning his skin where they touched.

He no longer felt the cave walls and opened his eyes to see he had made it back outside. But then he saw his feet about to step onto air, too late to stop himself. He tumbled off the edge, rolling down the rocky hill face as a sea of pebbles followed along. He hit each outcropping on the way down, already feeling the bruises at the least, if nothing was broken. The bottom of the hill greeted him face first, rock shards digging into his cheeks as he just laid there for a moment to catch his breath.

Standing up on shaky legs, Bevan dusted himself off, trying to maintain some dignity after his fall. His body ached all over and he considered laying back down again to recover. The cliff he fell from had let out closer to that round valley he had seen before, now only a narrow rock bridge between him and his destination. Would this be where the prospector’s Lord Amygdala waited? If this lord did have the chalice, Bevan would find out soon enough.

A humming echoed from a nearby ridge, off tune but familiar. His mother had never sung to him, yet he could not help but to think of her. The song had a motherly quality, created to soothe but it sounded fallen from its purpose. The stage wasn’t right - that was the conclusion Bevan came to. If only it were performed in the right environment it could be itself rather than this perversion.

He realized then that he had been humming along and felt a shiver go down his back. He approached the ridge - he had to see where the song came from. From behind an outcropping, he saw a figure step into view. She wore a dress, fabric hung stiff from some dark stain, and she slouched with her hands limp at her side. He could not mistake the dress, recognizing the skirt and scarf as that worn by the doll in the dream, though without her shawl. The figure took another step down the ridge and in place for a face, a mass of flesh with protruding eyeballs balanced on her shoulders, tentacles dangling like hair.

Frozen in place, Bevan could not wrap his mind upon the humming creature. She wielded the uncanny in her song, throwing him off guard and keeping him from steadying again. The longer he stared at her, the more disturbing features he stumbled upon; multiple mouths with razor points, tentacles pouring out where feet should be, and -oh gods! - that was blood running down the front of her dress…

This was all his fault. He shouldn’t have been away at sea when his mother fell ill. If he had only returned earlier, pushed the captain a little more, he could have been by her side before the last few days. Maybe then he could have found a doctor to cure her, or maybe even forced her to go to Yharnam. She hadn’t wanted to risk dying so far from home in a heathen town, so far from her only child. He had been away for so long; eighteen month voyages with only three month breaks in between. He had missed so much time, he always thought there would be more later but they needed the money now. If only she could have heard this song; she would have liked that.  Drowning out her moans as the sickness set in, he would have sung  _ la la _ ... _ hmmm hmmm la… _

A scratch at the back of his mind distracted him from the song. She was closer now. She faced him directly, shambling closer at a deliberate pace. The tentacles falling around her fleshy head reached out, only feet away now. He should embrace her; let her envelop him in motherly warmth he knew she would have. She had to! How else would she hum such a pretty song?

But still the scratching kept him rooted. No - remember the blood! She or  _ it  _ was no mother, no doll of the dream either. He had to move, had to get away for it was almost upon him, but why wouldn’t his legs move? The image in his mind, the one that scratched and scratched...a rune, yes - that was it. He had seen it before on that scrap of paper in the basement on Oedon Chapel. The roots that planted in his mind had taken hold and bloomed.  _ Heir _ , they said,  _ heir _ ! But heir to what? What could a bastard ever be heir to?

_ Thunder _ , said another part of his mind, deeper and primordial. Yes, here he stood, garbed in his inheritance. Henryk had made him the bolt hunter and he need only call for lightning to be at his command. He shut his eyes - he could not hear the humming anymore. As he touched the hilt of his saw cleaver, he felt a rush of static descend from his arm to the blade.

He extended the blade to its cleaver configuration, opening his eyes to see tentacles reaching out for him. A swipe of his arm and a crackle of lightning and the humming stopped. Silence. The bulging head fell to the rocky ground as sparks darted around its folds and eyes. The body collapsed a moment later, the dress pooling as the tentacles holding it up surrendered their shape.

A thud shook the landscape. Around him, rocks tumbled away into the mists where the ships sailed and a cloud of dust rose from the valley in the distance. As it cleared, he saw a seven armed creature with an almond head waiting for him.

* * *

 

A narrow bridge separated him from the creature.  _ Amygdala _ , he corrected himself, the tomb prospector’s god. Was it a god though? It looked like the creatures that had brought him to this nightmare, without tentacles draped from its face. It seemed to be watching him, though Bevan saw no eyes on its head. He approached with care, his steps crunching the gravel each time his boot came down. Below the bridge was only mist and tops of masts; he could almost hear the nonexistent crew’s shanties. Would they sing songs of rolling fog instead of tide?

Bevan entered the valley, or maybe it was an arena. The hills walled them in an almost perfect circle, and on the far side he could see a small building that could have been plucked from Yharnam. Lord Amygdala leaned its head down, close enough that he would have felt its breath had it any. His mouth dried; were they enemies? Was the creature intelligent? He had no way of knowing, no face to read, no voice to hear. Just the latticed face matching the stone in his pocket.

“I’ve come seeking the chalice.” He said, projecting his voice to sound more confident than he was. It echoed back to him from the valley walls and he was sure he heard a stutter. “The chalice of Loran.”

Amygdala straightened its curved back, towering over him and the valley walls. For a moment, Bevan thought it would consent to giving him the chalice but then a gash in its chest began to glow white. 

Instinct drove him to dive out of the way as beam erupted from its chest and the air caught fire everywhere it touched. A dull roar bubbled up from within it and it smashed its many arms down. The ground shook as Bevan caught his balance again, but he managed to avoid being crushed. Amygdala had its head low after bringing its arms down still and he took advantage. Bevan swung his cleaver into the creature’s head, glad to see it bled red. It leapt back, fast, before swiping a few of its arms across the ground towards his legs. He jumped in time for the arms to pass under him, slicing into their sinewy, gray flesh before the arms could retreat. 

It pulled its arms back, keeping all but its crouched legs and small tail from his reach. He dared not rush an attack for these targets with all of its arms suspended in wait. Instead, he circled along the outside ring, fingers twitching with impatience around his cleaver. He had come so far to arrive in this nightmare - the chalice was within his reach and now only this false god stood between him and his contract.

Amygdala jumped. Bevan turned his gaze up, a blur of shadow. He dove forward just as the ground shook from the crash. It swung around to face him after it landed - too slow. Bevan ran between its legs, slicing its underbelly. Thick blood gushed down his body - gods, the smell! The creature roared again and an arm swept down throwing him across the arena. He landed hard, his body making a  _ thump _ as it hit dirt. He couldn’t wait to catch his breath as a shadow descended.

He saw the one gap without shadow and rolled his body toward it.  _ Thud _ . Amygdala’s arms formed walls on either side of him. Bevan scrambled to his feet and swung his cleaver down with both hands on the joint of its arm. The blade sunk it, finding no bone but solid muscle all the way down. It reared back, the injured arm hanging at an unsightly angle. It grabbed the injured limb around the joint and pulled, followed by a horrible  _ snap _ . Blood fountained from the stump, but in its other hand was the detached limb, wielded like a club now.

In a tantrum, it beat the ground again and again, trying to crush Bevan as he dashed back and forth. He caught his breath in gasps, hot air burning in his lungs. Just when he thought he could not run any longer, it retreated backward, ceasing its barrage. He dragged his cleaver along the ground, the weight overpowering his tired muscles, but the creature was still unfazed even after the loss of a limb. He prepared to make another attempt at its head as its chest began to glow. 

With newfound energy, Bevan ran. Fire burned the back of his neck, at his heels as he made his way in a wide circle. A shadow passed over him again and he skid to a stop as Amygdala leapt in front of him, arms blocking his escape the way he came. When he tried to slip underneath its legs, it stomped its feet, forcing him back into the gauntlet. So close, he was  _ so close! _ He couldn’t fail, he would not die again - not to this creature. He ran his cleaver along the ground and a shower of sparks danced across the blade. A glow rose from its chest as he swung down, catching three of its arms in the blow. Lightning crawled up its limbs and it roared in pain. That entire side of its body collapsed, bringing its head into his range.

Bevan planted his blade into Amygdala’s skull with a  _ crack! _ It split in two as its entire body shuddered before collapsing onto the floor of the arena. Around his feet, blood pooled as it gushed from the creature’s head. His clothes soaked and heavy, he fell to his knees, leaving his saw cleaver in the creature’s brains. His muscles screamed with strain, but the elation of victory rose in his chest. He had done it, he had killed a god. 

After a few minutes, he found his feet again, hauling his cleaver from the creature and stepping over its arms so he could enter the small building. A familiar blue light shone inside, but something small beside it caught his eye. A cup, silver in color and with a brim like a crown awaited him. Inside, a human skull stared back at him with hollow eyes; it had been waiting for him too. He lifted the chalice with care and saw sand inside, but also the smell of salt. A feeling of the uncanny washed over him and he remembered the rune again.  _ Heir _ .

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Answers waited just on the horizon, he only need complete the ritual. But first he had business with a certain tomb prospector.


	8. Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bevan returns to Yharnam with the Ailing Loran chalice, but before he can conduct the ritual, tragedy befalls a friend.

After a quick stop in the Hunter’s Dream, Bevan returned to the library. Someone else had been through there in that time, evidenced by open doors and bloody footprints leading through each room. He thought to the hunter that killed the other and took care to keep to the shadows as he approached the door. It was still closed, but the door nearest on the same wall was ajar. He slipped into the room, finding himself in some sort of alchemy lab. Vials and books covered every available surface and he unfortunately could see more than a few contained eyes. Attempting to keep form retching, he stepped over scattered piles of books and overturned chairs to a door along the wall. He put his ear to wood, a muttering voice audible from within.

“Oh, the poor bastard…” the tomb prospector snickered. “Lord Amygdala ought to be feasting on that cursed blood by now. Perchance there will be some left his most loyal servant…”

Hot anger rising in him, Bevan shoved the door open. A crash followed as a dozen glass vials shattered onto the ground that had been leaning up against the door. He burst into the room, saw cleaver in hand, but froze in the doorway as saw the creature waiting in the room. A massive spider with a pale human face cowered atop a table in the corner, holding its black legs in front of its body. “Oh, this cannot be... _ you _ cannot be...Lord Amygdala-“

“Dead.” Bevan spat, his shock turning into disgust.

“Now, wait!” The spider said, regaining his composure and stepping out from the corner. Had he arms, Bevan suspected they would have been crossed with indignation. “Do you think ill of me?  _ Me? _ You’ve made yourself a misreckoning! Now, you have your chalice, just as I said you would! You should appreciate the assistance I so graciously offered!”

Bevan brought his saw down, crashing through the table beside the spider. “How did you know I was a bastard?”

The spider flinched back. “Now, now, there’s no call for violence! We’re both rational gentlemen, aren’t we? Just call it, say, prospector’s intuition!”

He growled and a bolt of lightning erupted with his blade. “I’d choose your lies more carefully if you want to live.”

“Well, my, my…” The spider said, eyes wide and reflecting back the blue light. “And not even a page of bolt paper...dear friend, I think you will have much to learn in Loran. The truth is, I know not except what I smell in your blood and bastards have a scent most distinguished. A scent that my god craved, though it has never been my place to know why.”

“That’s it?” Bevan grunted, pulling his saw free of the wood. “Nothing more of Loran or blood?”

“I’m afraid not-“

He didn’t let the spider finish his sentence. Swinging his saw down, he tore into his back, splitting his abdomen open. The spider reached out with legs, his face contorted as blood oozed from his body. “That was...uncharitably done, dear friend. Uncharitably...done…”

* * *

 

Bevan wiped the blood from his saw cleaver before he returned to the dream. The doll waited for him, arms folded at her lap. “The chalice…”

He pulled it from his coat and held it out for her. She accepted it into her hands. Her fingers were made of delicate joints she had delicate joints, the most artificial thing about her. Shawl shifting with each step, she brought the chalice to one of the headstones and placed it on a pedestal. “It’s almost ready. All that is left is the offering.”

“I have something I need to do first.” He reached into his pocket and felt the small vials, all still there. “Then I’ll be ready for this night to end.”

She bowed her head. “Of course. You’ve done well, good hunter.”

He nodded, not sure what to say, and tapped two fingers to his hat. It was an old salute from his home, used to wish good luck to sailors about to leave on a long journey. She smiled, a curious thing on her porcelain face. He returned to Cathedral Ward gravestone, closing his eyes as he touched the carved letters.

He awoke in Oedon Chapel, but his eyes opened to blood. Where he expected to see Arianna was only an empty chair, pool of scarlet at its feet and bloody footprints leading away.  _ No, no, no _ . He as too late; the beasts had burst through the door and killed them all. While he had wasted time hunting down the tomb prospector, they had been torn to ribbons and eaten alive.

Only, the old woman still sat in her rocking chair, seemingly undisturbed. The nun huddled in her corner and Virginia watched him with wide eyes. He whipped around and saw the chapel dweller still crouched, his red wrapping looking like a bloodstain upon the floor.

“Where is she? What happened?” He demanded, but his voice quivered with each word. This couldn’t be, he brought the medicine. She was supposed to be alright after he gave it to her.

“The lady of the night, sir? She went down into the basement - said she weren’t feeling too well. Don’t you worry though, the other hunter went down to check on ‘er.” The dweller shrunk back, but Bevan didn’t waste any more time on him before rushing down the staircase. His stomach churned with fear as he passed red handprints along the walls - gods, how much blood had she lost? How was she still standing? He had to find her, help her and return the favor. Two outcasts, two bastards, that understood the other’s pain.

In the library, her trail led through the trapdoor. He prayed she hadn’t fell as his shaky hands began to descend. Firelight crackled from below - a good sign, perhaps? If she had been able to bring a torch then perhaps she was still alright. His foot slipped as he reached the bottom rung and he let himself drop into the water with a splash. He turned, and saw Arianna.

She sat in a chair, much like the one in the chapel, her head fallen to the side and mouth agape. Blood stained the front of her dress and, in her arms, she held a bulbous mass, nearly ripped in half and still bleeding. She looked as though she had been silenced mid-scream, a deep wound on her chest at her heart. He fell to his knees, taking her hand into his own. Still warm. 

“No...no...this can’t be…” Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. “I have your medicine...it’s right here.” He reached for the sedatives in his pocket but his fingers found a longer vial instead. As he pulled it out, he saw that it was the blood Arianna had gifted him, still waiting after all this time. “I can give it back...you’ve lost so much, have it back.”

His hands shaking, he pulled the cork free and poured the blood into her open mouth. It bounced off her tongue and down her chin, leaving a red trail behind. “You have to drink it...you have to drink…”

His hand fell away from her mouth as the tears began to well in his eyes. He sealed the blood again, the last spark of life left of her. He cast his eyes to the creature laying in her lap. Its body had been sliced down the chest and appeared to have been posed here after death. Blood stained its pale skin all the way to where it ended in tail and he could see where the umbilical cord had been roughly torn away. What create could have done this to a child, even a monstrous child?

How could this happen? What sort of nightmare befell poor Arianna to curse her this way? The wound in chest, just at the neckline of her chest, this did not originate from childbirth. Something, someone had driven a blade through her heart after murdering her child.  _ The other hunter _ . Mina. Killer, betrayer, blood-addled fiend - how could she commit such a crime upon this woman? Not a beast, not a danger, she had been the only sanity left in this bloody city!

Bevan staggered back to his feet. He wiped his tears away with his sleeve, barely noticing that he smeared more blood across his face doing so. His feet carried him, rage driving him back up the ladder and into the chapel. The air was thick and clouded from the incense, burning his eyes, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed with slashing, cutting, and tearing anything and everything, whatever would dare cross his path. He saw the chapel dweller, still crouched underneath his bloodstain cloak, gray skinned face not entirely human. Swiping his cleaver down from his back, he slammed the blade down on the ground next to the dweller and growled, “Where is she?”

The dweller flinched back and cowered, a pathetic sight with his twig arms and shrivelled body. “Please, sir! I swear I ‘eard ‘er go down into the basement. I swear, I swear!”

“Not her!” He fell to a coughing fit, forcing the words out in between. “ _ The hunter! _ ”

His gray skin paled further as his voice cracked. “Good Mina? I told ya she went down after the lady-“

“After that!” Bevan tore through his red shawl, leaving it in ribbons where the blade touched.

“I don’t know, sir! I’m not privy to where she-“

He pressed his blade to the dweller’s throat, letting the sharp edge dig in enough to break the skin. “So you do bleed red.” He whispered, close to the withered man’s ear. “Maybe I’ll find out how your blood tastes?”

“I don’t know!” The dweller blurted, his voice high and terrified. ”And I wouldn’t tell such a beast if I did!”

Anger bubbled up. He should kill the dweller for lying, for trying to  _ protect _ that monster. He tightened his grip, only a single wrist movement away from cutting his throat, but hesitated. This was a waste of time; the hunter would already be far from here now. He released the pressure from his neck, and the chapel dweller let a sigh of relief escape his mouth before a gunshot echoed through the chapel.

( _ mmm whatcha say…) _

Hot pain flooded his chest. He looked down to see a hole in his shirt where red blossomed in the fabric. It couldn’t be, something had to be wrong. He turned his head over his shoulder. Virginia stood, quaking, just a few feet away. In her hands she held a flintlock, the pistol he gave her. Her tiny hands. Gray smoke rose from the barrel. It only had one shot, but one was all she needed.

The cleaver clattered to the floor, and for the second time, Bevan fell to his knees. Blood rushed into his stomach now and bubbled up to his throat. He coughed and it came up through his mouth. “Virginia…” he tried to say but it came out barely above a whisper before he fell forward. The chapel dweller screamed and ducked out of the way, pulling his shawl out from under Bevan’s face. He had to get up, had to explain to her that he wasn’t a monster. _These_ _people_ were the real monsters; murdering Arianna…conspiring with killers. Now they’d turned her against him!

The nun, garbed in her black church robes and a dagger at her waist put her hands on Virginia’s shoulders. “Oh, brave girl! You’ve done it! Now break the lantern and we’ll be free of his tainted, bastard blood!”

She stalked closer, her dagger ringing as she ripped it free of her belt. Her eyes were wild and hair falling ragged around her face. He tried to push her hand away as she knelt down beside him, but she easily caught his wrist. Then she slid the blade into his throat, beckoning his blood to flow.

* * *

The blood moon’s red light tore Bevan’s eyes open. This was not Oedon Chapel. As he stood up again beside a lantern, he recognized the interior of the Grand Cathedral. The bloody crow’s body still lay in a heap, his blood long dried. Just another corpse now, he could barely remember the wounds from their battle; his body left them behind with his last death. He clutched at his stomach, but of course there was nothing left behind, no scar, not even a hole in his shirt. It was still with him though, a knife through his heart.

She had done as he told her; how was she to know the truth? The hunter murdered Arianna in the shadows, out of sight from all in the chapel. If they had seen what he had, they would have gladly given up Mina’s location. Instead they think that  _ he  _ was blood-addled, though nothing could be further from the truth! He saw it all so clearly now - her face, her child, her wounds. He had been rash with the dweller, sure, but he had never claimed to be diplomatic. What had Thomas lectured him about? He had said he acted with fist, never his thought with his head. A product of growing up in the gutter…

_ This too is hunter’s work _ . Eileen’s words returned to him as he cast his eyes to the bloody crow again. Honorless perhaps, but what good had honor ever done a bastard? Bevan clenched his teeth. No honor, but vengeance and that would taste sweetest of all. 

He knelt at the lantern and let the Grand Cathedral dissolve around him. The Hunter’s Dream materialized, glaring moon still white above the workshop. The doll stood up suddenly, hands over her heart. “Good hunter, is there something wrong?”

“Not now.” Bevan snapped. He took the iron badge from his pocket and pitched it straight to the pale little ones in their bird bath. One of them caught it, needing two hands, and a moment later pulled a folded black-feather cloak from beneath the water. He snatched it from its hands, returning Henryk’s coat in turn. Wrapping the cloak around his shoulders, he tested out a few swings of his saw cleaver. The feathers were light, not restraining his movement at all. He passed over his cap and received the beak mask and hat Eileen wore. He stared into its black eyes for a moment, his breath hitching. Could he so easily slip into her shoes as he could her cloak?  _ Hunter of hunters, _ yet self-doubt plagued his every move. He had hesitated in Amygdala’s nightmare; how could he know that he wouldn’t when he found Mina?

The little ones held out Eileen’s beak mask and he thought to the Hinterlands, land of the sky burial. He remembered the funeral rites the captain performed for Thomas; after Bevan had spent so many days scaring the seagulls from his body, it had been such a relief to embrace it. Finally, Thomas’ soul could find rest and escape the bruised and decaying shell that his body had become. He owed this to the captain, to Eileen, to Arianna to get this revenge. He took the mask, leaving Henryk’s old feathered hat on the bath, and pulled it over his face. 

Through the perforated eyemask, he saw the dream in shades of black, the long beak dividing his vision down the center. He thanked the little ones with a slow nod before turning back to the headstones. The doll had stepped away from her short ledge, leaning forward with concern on her porcelain brow. “I fear for what troubles plague you, good hunter. Is there some way I can be of help?”

“Where is she - the other hunter -  _ Mina? _ ” He asked.

Her eyes fell downward. “It is not my purpose to share such things, but-” she stopped suddenly, as though the words were stolen from her lips. Her finger then began lifting slowly from her side, as though suspended by a string. “Some things are better left unspoken.”

Bevan went to the third headstone that her finger indicated and knelt down. The words on this one appeared carved by a feral hand, no care taken for symmetry. The alphabet was alien to him, but the little ones directed him to the words he needed. Closing his eyes, he touched the stone with gloved hands and awoke from the dream.

* * *

He felt the blistering cold before he even opened his eyes.

His feathered coat rustled in biting wind and below his boots crunched fresh snow. Was this still Yharnam? He stood beneath a great stone gate, the same color as the city’s architecture, but he felt none of the still, humid air from before. A broken bridge led to the island he stood on, icy lake below that spread out for miles around. Just on the horizon through the haze, he thought he could see the mainland where a dense wood stood and reminded him of the one he had seen surrounding Yharnam. 

When he turned around, he gasped as he saw a mighty castle looming above, just as tall as Yharnam’s spires but many times more magnificent. In the stone facade, he could see dozens of windows that must lead into countless rooms, pouring lamplight out into the cold snow. Occupying the residence were hundreds of carved statues, many twelve feet tall and towering over shorter subjects. A grand fountain sat before the main doors, but icicles hung from the stone, long ago fallen to neglect. As he stumbled forward, the stone denizens surrounded him on all sides, hollow eyes forever gazing to the cosmos. He felt small walking between them, forever below their sight.

His boot came down in something wet. He pulled his eyes back to the ground and saw fresh blood flowing between stone feet. He followed the trail behind the statue and found a collection of thin, gray legs, far too many to be human and a mop of hair on an insectoid head. It had a fat thorax at its back, but something had ruptured the sac, causing the blood trail to flow. Then the smell hit him. Rancid, days old blood and bad meat, mixed together and left to bake in the sun; whatever the cold temperature could have done to stave off rot had not worked for the disgusting creature. Some of the blood had begun to crystallize, but only that which had drifted too far from the corpse’s warmth. Bevan turned his gaze, not wanting to gaze upon it anymore, but saw a trail of others leading to the steps of the castle.

His breath hitched. She was here. He quickened his pace, weaving between the statues and splashing through the trickling blood streams until he reached the great doors. They had already been pushed open enough for him to slip through and he saw wet footprints that led into the foyer. A fine rug led down a wide staircase and to the beginning of the room where Bevan entered, before splitting at the landing to where the stairs led up to either side of the room. He heard sobbing echoing from around him, as well as intermittent shrieks, but could see no sign of what made them.

As he made his way up the stairs, he spotted a burn mark in the carpet, fresh enough that ash still hovered among the dust. He followed the trail up the left staircase and into the dining room where the chairs had crumbled, mostly from age but some of the splintered wood held the same burns. Another scream, but this time closer; he was catching up to her. Taking his saw cleaver from his back, he held the blade tight in his hand as he crept into the next room.

He found himself at a spiral staircase leading up through a tower, the chill returning again through the open door at the top. It led him to the rooftop where more of the stone figures greeted him with starbound gestures. A trail of footprints gave him a path between the statues and he eagerly followed. He thought about how he would dig his saw into her flesh before sending lightning arcing up the blade. He would take his time after he disabled her, make sure she knew she suffered for Arianna. 

He heard a third scream, but this time a man’s voice. Scrambling ahead to a corner, he caught sight of two figures in the snow. The first, a hunter in gray, laid collapsed in a pool of blood. His arm moved in a dying attempt to push the other away, but his strength failed him quickly. The other hunter crouched over him, gathering his lifeblood into a vial. On her back was strapped an enormous sword, dripping a red trail each time she moved. She wore a wide brimmed hat with a jagged cone sticking from the top and a fine black and red coat that she had been stained on the front by her victim’s blood.

The other hunter’s haggard breath slowed soon after, and she finished collecting his blood and stored it within her coat. Bevan’s own blood thumped loud in his ears. Here was Arianna’s murderer, and only a dozen yards separated them. If he was fast, he could disarm her before she realized he was there - that sword looked slow and clumsy.

He slipped around the corner, keeping to the statue’s shadows, though she had her back to him. His saw cleaver felt heavy in his grip, but he had to be fast. He could not afford a moment’s hesitation if he wanted to keep his element of surprise. He closed the gap between them, not far now. Her coat had fine filigree tailoring, it looked like it belonged to the knights that had surely once lived in this castle. Closer. He hefted his arm back to swing his saw.

She turned her head to look over her shoulder, a silver skull mask covering her face. “Such a familiar scent...a few drops left after all…”

Bevan charged the remaining gap, bringing his saw down in a wide arc. She caught the swing on her blade, grabbing it by the hilt as she spun around to face him. The sword roared to life as a turquoise glow emanated from its core. He gave her no chance to recover, forcing her to retreat closer to the crumbling tower at the edge of the roof. The black feathers swarmed like a cloud around him as he moved; he felt as though the wind carried his blows as he swung.  _ Sky burial _ . A mercyful fate she didn’t deserve.

Mina returned with an attack of her own, bringing her blade down onto the roof with a  _ crash _ . Bevan backstepped it easily but a moment later, a wave of turquoise energy sprung from the blade, blowing back his feathered cape as it barely missed him.  _ Slow, still. _ He thought.  _ But she only needs to hit once. _

She hefted the blade back up with ease and kept the blade pointed at him, keeping him from closing the gap. He would have to bait an attack to get closer, he realized. His boots crunched in the snow as he faked a charge, diving to her right and extending his saw cleaver at the same time. The ground shook as her sword crashed into the brick where he had been standing and she turned her head to prepare for a second strike. Bevan struck before she could lift her blade, slashing at her legs and managing to land his blow, a rain of red drops marking the snow. She fell to one knee and he swung for a finishing blow, but she pulled her mask away and a bolt of black light sprung forth and impacted him in the chest.

He fell to the ground, the air forced from his lungs.  _ Sorceress _ . He couldn’t give her the chance to recover, but she was already drinking a vial of blood and wiping it from her chin with a black sleeve. Leaning on her blade, she stood up again, sharp eyes and pale face exposed without her mask. She lofted her blade above her head and brought it down above his body. He rolled in time, but a burst of magic blew him back, finding the edge of the roof mere inches away.

Back on his feet, he held his blade defensively, waiting for Mina to make a move. She circled, blade over her shoulder and her eyes on him like a wolf. Had this been the same gaze Arianna received right before her death? His chest tightened as he imagined her final moments.  _ Hunter of hunters _ . No honor, but at least there could be justice. 

Bevan pounced when she stepped adjacent to the ledge. He saw the snow swirling into the darkness below, the ground faded from sight in the mist. He didn’t have to survive, she just had to die. He reached his arms out to grab her as he barreled into her, ready to kick off the side. Then, her hand left the hilt of her sword, catching him in the chest. She swung her arm around and threw him back onto the roof. He felt something crack.

“What a terrible waste that would have been…” Her boots crunched into the snow beside his head as she whispered. His vision muddied, he saw two figures standing above him, preparing to bring down the glowing blade. His hand felt beneath his feather cloak to where his pistol waited. He moved slowly, raising the barrel out from the feathers. One shot. The two hunters shifted and swirled so he closed his eyes as his finger found the trigger. 

The gunshot echoed off the castle walls. Bevan opened his eyes to see Mina looking down at a fresh wound in her chest. She touched a finger to it, blood dripping down her hand and then turned back to Bevan on the ground. He scrambled to get back to his feet but she brought her sword down. It caught him on his legs and kept going. He stopped feeling pain a moment later.

Unable to feel his lower limbs, he swung his saw cleaver, forcing her to jump back. His blade stuck into something with a wet sound and when he drew it back, blood smeared the blade. A spark jumped across the toothed edge, followed by another and another until the whole weapon was encircled in lightning.

Mina hesitated, the blue light reflecting off her eyes. She took her blade and lowered it from his vision, and when she brought it back up, blood dripped from the tip. A flash of blue followed by another, and sparks began to dance up her blade. She held it aloft, turquoise and blue like the morning sea. “A tragic waste...do you even know your value?”

Bevan swung his saw, but his fingers gave way and it fell to the ground. Sparks jumped between his fingers, memories of where they gripped the hilt. His gun was gone, he didn’t remember dropping it. Nothing left, just sparks. He failed. He failed Arianna. Just her blood, nothing left. Shame, anger, pain, everything mixed together in his head and all he wanted to do was scream, but his body could not obey. He could just watch the hunter, Mina,  _ murderer,  _ dip her blade in his blood while she prepared her killing blow. 

“ _ Hunter of hunters _ …” The words escaped his cracked lips, tasting blood. “I’m sorry Arianna...Thomas...mother…”

“When next you dream, take care to remember why you’re there.” She knelt beside him, removing his mask and then grabbing his chin. “Leave the hunting to those that have the stomach for it.”

Mina tightened her grip on chin and snapped his neck. 


End file.
